PREACH WITH CONVICTION Part 2b
Title: PREACH WITH CONVICTION Part 2b
Fandom: RPS
Characters/Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (STARTING NEXT CHAPTER). But for now Brendon/*Religious*Pete
Prompt: Gluttony.
Word Count: 770
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Fakishly fake.
Description: “So now I’m going to have to punish you.”
Author's Note: I am freakishly sorry for the wait, but hopefully, this next chapter may be worth it :D Thank you so very much to everyone who commented! You are the rainbow-coloured lining on my great grey cloud of life.
1a: What a Wonderful Caricature of Intimacy...
1b: Paying in Naivety...
2a: Enough That You Might Swallow Your Tongue...
White. Bright white light. Burning. Brendon could hear a low crackling, like flames, dancing up to claim him, and he wondered if this was hell (not that he believed in it or anything). And yet, there was no smoke, no smell, nothing as far as he could tell.
The nothing terrified him.
His eyes darted frantically, - up, down, left, right; trying, failing, to pinpoint the source. And then, he looked straight up, right above where he lay, immobilised on some form of bed. And saw his own face staring back at him.
A television screen. His self-portrait fading in and out of focus, crackling, as black and white interference flashed across his terrified features.
“What the fuck?” he mumbled, and tried to move, get out, out and as fucking far away as possible.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Brendon Urie.”
Brendon froze, heart thumping against his ribs, fighting desperately to get out.
“How do you know my name?”
To the silence which followed, he yelled furiously, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT WITH ME, YOU BASTARD?”
The television screen flickered into life. The focus no longer reflected Brendon, but a pair of hands, pressed together as if in prayer. And the hands masked a face - a horribly familiar face - expression unreadable in the poor lighting.
“In answer to your first question, Brendon Urie, I know your name because I have been watching you. I have been watching you for quite some time, and I have come to the conclusion that you are in need of a little...assistance. How do you feel about that, Brendon? I know who you are, where you live, the places you go when you think no one’s watching...”
The voice laughed: cold, empty (and the nothing terrified him.)
“And I? I am your salvation, Brendon. I am the only one who can save you from this.”
A small, cut out picture flashed onto the screen. It was terribly amazingly lifelike; a figure, crying on hands and knees, mouth wide open mid-scream, engulfed by a sea of blood-red flames.
And Brendon looked at the fingernails of his captor, gripping the frame, shaking slightly. Dangerously sharp, and just a little too long. And beneath the nail of his right index finger, a stain which looked horribly like blood.
Horribly like blood.
“That’s really all I want, Brendon. All I ever wanted was to help you. You’re going to learn the error of your sinful ways, no matter how long it takes. I’m prepared to do that for you. But you weren’t really very grateful, were you, Brendon Urie?”
The camera swept across his face, revealing numerous cuts and scars and bruises, almost mimicking the shape of a glass. Oh shit.
“So now I’m going to have to punish you.”
And that’s when the television screen exploded; shattering broken glass into the soft skin of Brendon’s stomach as he desperately attempted to cover his face, whimpering in agony. However, the explosion must have triggered some form of sprinkler system, and icy water began to cascade from tiny holes in the ceiling above him. Yet this liquid was not water: Brendon knew that smell before the first droplet even struck the stinging gashes in his body, knew it far too well. His old friend, Vodka, had finally betrayed him. Burning. Corroding his flesh, or so it felt. And then, he could hear screaming, piercing endless screaming, over and over - and it just wouldn’t stop. And then he realised it was his own. He forced himself to stop, just stop, just breathe.
“You bastard,” he gasped, “You fucking bastard...”
He had to get out of there. Oh shit, he had to get out of there. Sobbing, he tried to move, to crawl like an animal from the bed, now stained a dirty crimson with his blood. Oh God...
He twisted himself from the bed to the hard wooden floor, landing awkwardly on his hands and knees. And screamed as the needles began to perforate his skin. Needles, syringes - everywhere. He fell to his bleeding stomach and attempted to propel himself to the door, sobbing and weeping as his blood was smeared across the floorboards. The door - open. Oh thank God, thank God.
He had to do this, he had to get out, he had to get help...
But the innumerable syringes, now fully lodged into his flesh, contained some form of sedative, and Brendon felt himself falling. So, so tired... No. No. No.
“I don’t want to die,” he whispered to the shadow in the corridor, as he collapsed in the doorway.
Fandom: RPS
Characters/Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (STARTING NEXT CHAPTER). But for now Brendon/*Religious*Pete
Prompt: Gluttony.
Word Count: 770
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Fakishly fake.
Description: “So now I’m going to have to punish you.”
Author's Note: I am freakishly sorry for the wait, but hopefully, this next chapter may be worth it :D Thank you so very much to everyone who commented! You are the rainbow-coloured lining on my great grey cloud of life.
1a: What a Wonderful Caricature of Intimacy...
1b: Paying in Naivety...
2a: Enough That You Might Swallow Your Tongue...
White. Bright white light. Burning. Brendon could hear a low crackling, like flames, dancing up to claim him, and he wondered if this was hell (not that he believed in it or anything). And yet, there was no smoke, no smell, nothing as far as he could tell.
The nothing terrified him.
His eyes darted frantically, - up, down, left, right; trying, failing, to pinpoint the source. And then, he looked straight up, right above where he lay, immobilised on some form of bed. And saw his own face staring back at him.
A television screen. His self-portrait fading in and out of focus, crackling, as black and white interference flashed across his terrified features.
“What the fuck?” he mumbled, and tried to move, get out, out and as fucking far away as possible.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Brendon Urie.”
Brendon froze, heart thumping against his ribs, fighting desperately to get out.
“How do you know my name?”
To the silence which followed, he yelled furiously, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT WITH ME, YOU BASTARD?”
The television screen flickered into life. The focus no longer reflected Brendon, but a pair of hands, pressed together as if in prayer. And the hands masked a face - a horribly familiar face - expression unreadable in the poor lighting.
“In answer to your first question, Brendon Urie, I know your name because I have been watching you. I have been watching you for quite some time, and I have come to the conclusion that you are in need of a little...assistance. How do you feel about that, Brendon? I know who you are, where you live, the places you go when you think no one’s watching...”
The voice laughed: cold, empty (and the nothing terrified him.)
“And I? I am your salvation, Brendon. I am the only one who can save you from this.”
A small, cut out picture flashed onto the screen. It was terribly amazingly lifelike; a figure, crying on hands and knees, mouth wide open mid-scream, engulfed by a sea of blood-red flames.
And Brendon looked at the fingernails of his captor, gripping the frame, shaking slightly. Dangerously sharp, and just a little too long. And beneath the nail of his right index finger, a stain which looked horribly like blood.
Horribly like blood.
“That’s really all I want, Brendon. All I ever wanted was to help you. You’re going to learn the error of your sinful ways, no matter how long it takes. I’m prepared to do that for you. But you weren’t really very grateful, were you, Brendon Urie?”
The camera swept across his face, revealing numerous cuts and scars and bruises, almost mimicking the shape of a glass. Oh shit.
“So now I’m going to have to punish you.”
And that’s when the television screen exploded; shattering broken glass into the soft skin of Brendon’s stomach as he desperately attempted to cover his face, whimpering in agony. However, the explosion must have triggered some form of sprinkler system, and icy water began to cascade from tiny holes in the ceiling above him. Yet this liquid was not water: Brendon knew that smell before the first droplet even struck the stinging gashes in his body, knew it far too well. His old friend, Vodka, had finally betrayed him. Burning. Corroding his flesh, or so it felt. And then, he could hear screaming, piercing endless screaming, over and over - and it just wouldn’t stop. And then he realised it was his own. He forced himself to stop, just stop, just breathe.
“You bastard,” he gasped, “You fucking bastard...”
He had to get out of there. Oh shit, he had to get out of there. Sobbing, he tried to move, to crawl like an animal from the bed, now stained a dirty crimson with his blood. Oh God...
He twisted himself from the bed to the hard wooden floor, landing awkwardly on his hands and knees. And screamed as the needles began to perforate his skin. Needles, syringes - everywhere. He fell to his bleeding stomach and attempted to propel himself to the door, sobbing and weeping as his blood was smeared across the floorboards. The door - open. Oh thank God, thank God.
He had to do this, he had to get out, he had to get help...
But the innumerable syringes, now fully lodged into his flesh, contained some form of sedative, and Brendon felt himself falling. So, so tired... No. No. No.
“I don’t want to die,” he whispered to the shadow in the corridor, as he collapsed in the doorway.