A/N: It was only a matter of time before I'd write this.

Yes, I am back with more bandom. Pairings, this time. As in, shipping-and-slashing. As in, read this at your own risk.

Some things you should know. 1: THERE WILL BE NO EXPLICIT SCENES. Sorry if that just warded off all you perverts, but I don't write that shit. We just need to know what happened, smut, in my book, is strictly off the page. 2: COUPLES WILL COME OUT OF NOWHERE. Some of them have been planned, others will just appear. 3: A LOT OF THE MATERIAL HAS BEEN POORLY RESEARCHED. The vast majority has come from my imagination, my interpretation, and the little knowledge I retain. 4: THE WHOLE BANDOM HAS BEEN CRAMMED INTO THIS STORY. So has more than just them.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

For any of you regular readers of my work, some announcements: be on the lookout for a story I've been working on with the lovely Inu-Chan the music friend. It should be due BY the end of this year. Second: I am still working on ALL my stories. No doubt. However, you may not have regular updates for a while. Why? IB Program. I am going to dig myself into the ground for the chance that I MIGHT get into a really good college when I get to that point. I might not be able to find the time to write. I love you all, and I wish I could still have (relatively) regular posts, but it's gonna get pretty random. I'm sorry.

Alright, you beautiful people. Enjoy.

~Sunshine

Sertum Spinarum.

It was what he had been named. But that was simply formal. Most knew him as The One With the Thorns Around His Neck. And he liked it that way.

He tightens the black, woolen cloak around him, shivering. The Mortals called, still call, this place fiery. An oven to cook the evil. Eternal Damnation in the form of fire, yadda yadda yadda, demons and succubi, criminals against God, Let the sinners burn among them, all that jazz.

Bullshit. Hell was plain fucking cold. Even for him.

And he hated it.

He had always wondered what head would be like. Real heat. Not the fire that came from his hands. But... Like... The sun.

Yet Hell was what you made it out to be. Hell was everything you hated and nothing of what you wanted. People could interpret it in any way. He recalls one woman, a paranoid schizophrenic in life, who imagined this, quite literally, God-forsaken place as her institution, filled to the brim with all her nightmares. He had never heard screaming so violent, so tortured, so damn frightening before.

Sharp nails dig into his shoulder through the cloak, fake, reptilian warmth burns through the stiff, dark fabric, and a pair of chapped lips snake their way next to his ear, lips that belong to a sadistic-sounding and raspy voice.

"Sertum Spinarum. The boy of thorns. We meet again."

He feels himself tensing. "Whaddya want?"

"Just... Doing some favors for my master-"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Oh, but my dear Spinarum, you know." The form moves its lips away from his ear, and composes itself in front of him. The form is made of smoke and electricity, chaotic and destructive. It's vaguely masculine, but who could know with this thing?

"No, actually, I don't."

The force of pain hits him like a bullet to the head. It's too much, even for him. A scream erupts from his mouth.

And all the stupid little smoke demon does is laugh.

"Naww, too much for The One With The Thorns Around His Neck? Is he screaming?" The monstrous cackles end. "Tough shit. Pay, Demon."

A stab in his back, a final shriek, and everything's being torn away.

What-

Who-

Where-

Please Help-

Who am I?

USA Today - Sunday, April 21, 2013

Earthquake in Los Angeles

Following the 5.6-magnitude earthquake in LA on Wednesday, the governor of California is demanding cleanup, and is asking for 300 M in bailout money from the Federal Government.

"Hey, Kezia, you wanted the soy chai, right?"

I look up to the curly-haired guy who's currently passing out the 8:30 coffee fix. After he passes Kezia's part of the counter in the employee's area, he nudges my shoulder, and hands me a large, plastic tumbler.

"Double-shot latte with vanilla syrup?" He asks, although the guy knows the order by heart now. Damn, the baristas must know it, too. All of our orders.

But I take the coffee with a large smile. "Thanks for the coffee run, Joe."

He rolls his eyes as he crosses the room to hand a black coffee with what may be seven cubes of sugar in it to Jon, who looks particularly scruffy today with the beginnings of a goatee and a ripped t-shirt. "Pete, you're the only one who thanks me out of all these idiots-"

"Joe Trohman, you are a great man for bringing us the morning coffee," Jon cuts in.

"Fucking suck-up," Joe mutters under his breath. He hands a mocha to Spencer. The stocky, bearded, retro-clothed guy takes it with a smile and a nod. He finishes with the skinny latte for Amy, and then throws the cardboard carrying case away, sipping at his plain, black, masculine coffee. That stuff must taste like, I dunno, fucking petroleum or something. Acid.

"So, what now?" Amy practically yells. Loud Amy. Obnoxious Amy. Funny Amy. Typical Amy. She's sipping green tea, no doubt. Her eyebrow piercing glints in the light.

Spencer shrugs. "Dunno, our jobs?"

Jon snickers at that one. I swear, those two are so close. I'm surprised they aren't together.

"Asshole."

Spencer winks back.

"You're all assholes," Joe declares, "Let's open up shop."

"So, how long have you been doing this?"

I look up. "What?"

"How long have you been inking tattoos?" The girl looks up at me from laying down on the table. She has flaming orange hair that I'm betting is dyed, green eyes, and a wicked, lopsided grin. A leg of her loose, black-gray-and-red plaid shorts has been pulled up so I can tattoo her thigh. She wanted a cross. Loves her religion.

"Um, I dunno, a few years now?" I swallow deeply and lean over the design with the needle again while she lays back on the table.

"That's cool. I have an old friend who does tattoos back in Tennessee. I make easy friends with 'too artists. I'm Hayley." She lets loose her crazy grin once again.

"I'm Pete."

"Pete. I haven't heard that name on a guy younger than forty in... I dunno, forever? How old are you, exactly?"

"Twenty-three."

"Cool. How long have you worked here?"

"Almost as long as I've been inking tattoos. Three years, maybe."

"Three years... Oh, my God, you must be double-shot latte with vanilla syrup!" She squeals, her eyes lighting up.

"How do you-"

"I work at the coffee shop. I've been making that order for three years! Oh, my God, I can't believe it's you! I thought you were a chick!"

I glare. "Excuse me?"

"Well, the vanilla syrup kind of got me-"

"Are you saying that you thought I was a girl because I like vanilla syrup in my coffee?" I raise an eyebrow, slightly smirking. "Have you ever tried it?"

She shrugs. "No, I'm more of a hazelnut syrup person."

We share a smile, and I get back to working on her tattoo.

"By the way, my roomate enjoys vanilla syrup. He's very straight, and I know you were about to pull that card on me."

"Maybe."

I continue the tattoo in silence.

"I hope you don't mind me asking-"

"I'm not gay."

"Really?"

"I'm bi."

"Oh, okay."

"Hope you don't mind."

"Are you serious? One of my coworkers is gay." Her eyes alight. "He and his boyfriend are so cute together! You have no idea."

"Mm-hmm."

"You really don't care, do you?"

"Well, it's someone else's personal life, and I'm kind of more focused on your tattoo right now. Last part."

She rolls her eyes. "Alright. Touche. But still."

"Yeah, still. Hey, your tattoo's done. I'm just gonna wrap it now. You gotta keep a bandage on for the next week, disinfect it at least three times a day, and don't get anything weird in it, hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, no problem." She smiles at me as I hand her a bottle of disinfectant, having finished wrapping the ink.

"Anyways, thanks, Pete. Come by the shop sometime."

I nod before she turns to leave. "I'll try."

"I'm gonna be moving out next week."

I look up at the guy who is currently removing Chinese takeout from the fridge. "Wuh?"

"I said, I'm gonna be moving out of the apartment next week. It's gonna be yours. You're gonna have to keep up the rent, but it's gonna be your apartment." The guy runs a hand through his strawberry blonde hair, scratches his sideburns, and goes to find chopsticks.

"Dude, you serious?"

"Yeah. I'm moving in with Zania next week."

"So you guys are actually serious."

"Fuck you."

I stand up to hug him. "My baby boy is growing up! I thought you'd be a bachelor forever-"

"Pete, go away."

"Fine." I pause. "But seriously, dude, you are that type. You play drums and guitar. You live with a tattoo artist. For the love of all things good, you're eating week-old takeout!"

He looks down at the Kung Pao tofu, and stops chewing. "Waitwhat?"

"Yeah, dude, that's a week old."

He ponders for a second, then resumes chewing. "Whatever, still tastes good."

"Exactly, total bachelor."

"You know what? I take back the 'fuck you'. Not worth my time."

"Patrick, you love me."

"Yeah."

"I didn't hear that."

He sighs, exasperated. "Yeah, Pete, I love you. I just love my girlfriend of two years a helluvalot more."

I tense up, and he realizes what he said. "Oh, dude, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm-"

"It's okay." I get up from the couch once more, and look for something to eat in the fridge. "Whatever, I'm not gonna hurt you over it."

I sift through the contents of the old machine. Takeout, pizza, beer, beer, beer, something moldy, beer...

"Why do you hate that word? Hell."

My shoulders stiffen; I relax them. "I dunno. Just... Something bad."

I decide the pizza is safe enough; I remove it from a shelf, close the fridge, and make my way to the counter, my fingers tingling, chest tightening-

"HOLY FUCK!" I scream, dropping the pizza box on the ground. It hurts. It hurts.

Patrick grabs my wrist and pulls it under the sink, turning the cold water on. As the stream hits my fingertips, they begin to steam, creating a strange light while it clashes with the lightbulbs, but the tingling begins to stop.

When the sensation has finished, I nod, muttering, "'Trick, I'm fine."

He shuts the water off, and lets go of my wrist. The fingertips of my right hand are now charred black. I look down at the abandoned pizza box, which has been seared from my outburst.

My roomate breathes deeply. "Why does this shit happen to you?"

"I dunno, dude! I just, lemme think, sauntered on in being able to shoot fucking firefrom my fucking

fingertips! I don't know why it happens." I pick the pizza box up, and toss it on the counter, where it lands with a slam. "I'm not hungry anymore." I lean against the counter, panting heavily. "It's so messed up."

Patrick lays a hand on my shoulder. "Pete. Pete. Hey, Pete."

"...Yuh-huh?"

"I don't know why, either. I just... Maybe we should take you to, like, a mystic, or a priest, or something."

I roll my eyes. "Dude, a priest? What kind of bullshit are you feeding me? And who's we?"

"Kezia and I."

"Why Kezia?"

"She's the only other one that knows, right?"

I shrug. "Yeah."

"We'll take you in next week how about that?"

"No."

"We're still gonna drag you. I'll ask Kezzie about it."

This is going to suck. I know it.

"Lemme in, I need to speak to Gabe."

The bouncer looks at me with his stony face, but it breaks, morphing into a kind grin. A baritone voice booms, "Hey, you're his scrawny little tattooist friend, aren't you? His personal therapist. C'mon in."

As he lets me pass through the doors to the club, people complain behind me. "Why does he get to go

in?"

"Shuttup, he has business with one of our employees!"

I snake my way through the packed, overheated club, channeling through slamming bodies and uncompelling dubstep, until I make it to the back, where three bartenders are pouring drinks like rapid fire.

I lean over the counter to get close to one of them, a guy the height of a professional basketball player.

"Gabe."

The guy turns around, and his dark eyes widen in delight. "Hey, Pete! Wattup, man, long time, no see, huh?"

"Haha, yeah. Listen, I need to talk to you, can you get off shift soon?"

"Um, yeah, let me check." He turns to another bartender, only slightly shorter than him. "Yo, Ryan, when's ten thirty?"

"You got five." The other bartender turns, and he grins, nodding to me. "Pete."

"Hey, Ryan." I smirk. "See, everyone knows me here!"

"Yeah, they do," Gabe sighs, "Meet me in the back in five, okay? You know the code."

"Alright, see you when your shift gets off."

I begin to glide through the club again, and make it to a door with a keypad; I type in, 1969. A click manages to resonate through the booming of the club, and I slip in.

It's so much quieter in here. I sigh, and make my way into the storage room for the booze. I consider cracking into the vodka, but I know it'll cost the club. Besides, I don't want to be getting back to the apartment wasted. I told Patrick that I'd be on a walk. He doesn't know that I'm hanging with Gabe.

He also doesn't know that Gabe isn't completely in the dark about the weird shit that happens to me.

I hear a door open, and the tall man slides into the room. Now that I can see him better, he looks really fucking tired: His short, dark curls are wet from the sweat of frustration, his fancy-ass button-up shirt and vest have gone askew, and he's panting heavily. Indigo crescents hang under his coffee eyes.

"Hey, Pete." He leans over from where I'm sitting on a couple boxes to hug me, and I return the embrace.

He looks back as he draws away, finds another box, and plops himself on it. "Is something wrong, dude?"

I laugh humorlessly. "You won't believe this."

"I believe the majority of what you say. What's it this time?"

"Well... Patrick is organizing for him and Kezzie to take me to a priest next week."

He stares at me, and starts guffawing, loud, boisterous peals of laughter. "You're killing me, Wentz, are you serious?"

"More than a heart attack."

He immediately stops laughing. "Wuh?" He coughs. "Are you serious? Is this about the whole..." To finish his comment, he holds out a hand, slides the other under it, and makes flaring gestures with the second hand.

"Yeah. I think 'Trick believes I'm possessed."

"Oh, God, that Zania chick must be unhealthy for him."

"No, she's a nice girl. And a pre-med student. And agnostic."

"Oh."

"Yeah." I smirk. "Just thought I'd let you know."

"Nice thing to let me know about."

"Sorry, dude. What's ailing you?"

"Nothing."

His voice is sincere, his eyes reveal the lie.

"What the fuck's wrong?"

"Nothing, Petey, I swear-"

"Gabe-"

"There is nothing happening-"

"Gabe-"

"Pete, just calm down-"

"Gabe!"

He shuts up.

"Look, I know when there's something wrong with you. You've been my best friend since I moved to Chicago five years ago, Patrick excluded. I know when something's off with you. What's wrong?"

He sighs. "Don't make fun of me, okay?"

"Dude, I'm a tattoo artist who shoots fire from his fingertips. I swear, I won't make fun of you."

"A-A-A-Alright." He coughs. "So, Andy."

"So, Andy. My boss. Your friend whom you convinced to hire me."

"Yeah. About him... He has this friend in town."

"I'm listening."

"And he's kind of... Off, y'know? I'm warning you right now, I met the guy a couple years ago. Like, he stares at people oddly, and he's always wearing at least a hoodie, and he's got, like, this mysterious air about him. And he's really quiet, and weird. Good looking, I'll admit-"

"And you'll also admit that you're not totally straight-"

"But just, I dunno, off. Like, he's waiting for something. It scares the shit out of me. I really was hoping he

wouldn't come back. You don't have an idea of how scared I am."

"I don't."

"You don't."

"No, I don't." I clear my throat. "Will I be expecting to meet him?"

"I dunno. Depends on Andy."