(no subject)
Title: Look At The Mess We've Made [Standalone]
Author: acrylicktears
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon.
POV: 2nd.
Summary: You were just going to keep your eyes on the road, keep driving, that’s what he wanted. You always did what he wanted.
Disclaimer: This is incredibly fake. A figment of my imagination.
Dedications: Skylar (bound_andgagged) & Wifey (battmobile) and anyone that reads this.
1537 words of me not knowing what the fuck I’m writing. Thanks to Brand New for giving me the inspiration. And Chris Donathon. Listen to Fer Sure, you'll be able to pick up the references.
The strip sped past you, lightning quick, red, blue, green, yellow, white white white. You glanced over to him, nervous. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know why you were doing it. Well, at least you couldn’t remember that much.
He was hunched forward, no seatbelt, close to the dashboard, too close if you had to stop suddenly. The bright lights flashed off the blade he held, quick, bright, there and gone again. White particles were sticking to the edge, small, you couldn’t really see them; you just knew they were there. He had the small plastic zip bag sitting in his lap, one bony hand clutching it tightly, so tight his knuckles were turning white.
You stopped staring at him, turned your focus back to the road. You needed it. You needed to concentrate, or something bad might happen. Even if you concentrated, something bad could still happen. There was always that chance. A car could turn out of a hidden side street, then bang. A person could run across the road, then bang. Other things could happen, but you couldn’t think of them right now.
The car was moving too fast, you knew that. A cop could be around any corner, watching, waiting for intoxicated people like you. You didn’t let up on the gas pedal, though. You kept it where it was, almost to the floor. Your car wasn’t that fast anyway. Fucking piece of junk. It broke down all the time. You just didn’t have the kind of money it would take to fix it, or even buy a new one. Oh, how you’d love a new car. But right then, how shitty your car happens to be wasn’t the point.
The point was that you still had no fucking clue what you were doing, but you didn’t want to interrupt him. He got pissed when he was interrupted while cutting lines. You knew that, and you didn’t want him to be pissed at you, so you weren’t going to ask. You were just going to keep your eyes on the road, keep driving, that’s what he wanted. You always did what he wanted. If it was going to make him happy, you did it. That’s why you were driving down the strip at five-fucking-billion miles an hour. Because it’s what he wanted.
You fumbled for something beside your seat. Your drink, you wanted your drink. Somehow, he knew that, and there it was, in his hand, pushing into your empty palm. You flashed a quick grin at him, mumbling something that sounded like a thank you, just maybe. You took a swig, the liquid bitter, burning, burning your throat. But you liked it, you liked the burn. You took another, and another, and then it was all gone.
You crushed the can in your palm, aluminum collapsing in on itself, breaking down. You dropped the can to the floor, already littered with cans from other trips, cigarettes, gum, you didn’t know what else. Honestly, you didn’t want to know.
“Turn here,” Finally, his voice. Raspy, scratching, cold, a million other things that you couldn’t quite place. His voice used to be soft, caring, a million other things that you missed. That was a long time ago, though. Before all this started. The drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, casual sex, danger danger danger. It was all bad, you knew it was, but you did it because that’s what he wanted.
“Bren, turn here,” His voice again. That voice. You were supposed to be doing something, his tone said. Then it clicked. Oh, turn here. So you did. You turned sharp, the car skidding, the tires letting out a painful screech. Sorry, you whispered. But you were talking to tires, they weren’t going to respond. So you frowned instead.
You could hear him snorting the lines now, the sound lasting three seconds. You knew this because you counted. The sound started, then one, two, three, and it finished. Maybe he counted too, you didn’t know. It repeated three times, then silence. And then you figured, maybe if he talked to you, you could talk to him first. And you did.
“What are we doing?” Your voice came out shaky, scared. You weren’t scared, just confused. It was a while before he answered, or at least it felt like it.
“We’re going to The Special Place, Bren.” Ah, now that’s something you could remember. The Special Place. You hadn’t been there for a while. You liked it there. You liked the things that happened there. It was there that he seemed almost normal again. Almost.
There was another sound, plastic this time. He was either opening the bag with the powder in it, or he had another one. You felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned your head, your eyes meeting his. Bloodshot, wild, dark, that’s what you saw. That was another thing you missed; his eyes. They used to be so pretty, so beautiful. Right now you hated everything for doing this to him. You wanted the old him back, the nice one. But that wasn’t going to happen.
His hand squeezed, soft. You had to start paying attention again, that’s what the squeeze meant. He was holding out something, a pill. Oh yeah, you forgot he had them. You took it, put it on your tongue, turned your attention back to the road. The lights were gone now, you were nearly there. He squeezed again; you held out your hand, he gave you a bottle of water. You took a drink, swallowing the pill and holding the bottle back out to him.
He took it from your grasp, you heard a gulp, the cap being screwed back on. He dropped the bottle to the floor. And his hand was gone, the spot it had been left cold. Then his voice again, “Stop now, Bren. Over there.” He pointed, and you parked where he told you to. You cut the engine, the car spluttering before going silent.
A pop, rustle of plastic, another pop. He had put the bags in the glove compartment. You didn’t know what else he had in there, and right now, you didn’t care. His door opened, his seat creaked, and the door slammed shut. You got out, leaving the keys in the ignition; no one else came here, anyway.
Blind hands reached out towards you, and there he was. His lips on yours, his tongue in your mouth, he tasted like a mixture of alcohol and something else, you didn’t know what. Then he was gone again, his hand tight around yours, pulling, leading you to the place where he became almost normal again, and so did you, maybe.
He pulled, tugged, you were supposed to be walking faster. You thought if you walked faster, you might just trip, end up on the ground, face first in the damp grass. You didn’t want that, but you tried to walk faster anyway. Somehow, you made it. Your head was buzzing as you lowered yourself to the scratchy picnic blanket you’d stolen from your mom. You two always kept that blanket there, ever since the first time.
Suddenly, he was in your lap, his hands tangling in your hair, his tongue probing inside your mouth. He pushed you backwards, gentle, his mouth not parting from yours. You shifted under him, there was something poking you in the back, sharp. A rock, maybe. You’d have to cope, you weren’t moving now.
Then his hand was at your belt, skilled, pulling it off, throwing it further into the shelter. Then his hand was back, ripping at your pants, pulling, wanting to get in, needing, begging. He succeeded and your too tight jeans were gone, down around your ankles. Loss of contact, he moved. Just for a moment, you felt cold, empty, and then he was back, his finger probing, then another, and then him, hot, hot heat. Burning, it was burning, but he was kissing you, tender, loving, and it was all okay again.
Pressure, heat, burning, empty, wet. So many sensations all at once, your brain was having a hard time keeping up, but you managed. You were close, so close. You guessed he was, too. Panting, hot breathing, moans, profanities filled the stale air as you both came in time, him collapsing on top of you, hot skin against hot skin, slipping, sliding.
He rolled off you, leaving you to feel cold, sticky, alone. You felt him squirm beside you, trying to get comfortable. An arm then slid around your waist, pulling you close, tracing patterns with long fingers, callused fingertips. His breathing calmed, now closer to your ear. “I love you, Brendon.” He breathed, hot, sharp teeth nipping at your ear lobe.
You tried to roll over, get closer to him, you wanted it, needed it, craved it. Your gaze met his. Although you were seeing through blurry vision, his eyes were soft, calm. Almost normal. “I love you too, Ryan.”
It was times like this you missed. They only happened once in a while, but when they did, it was perfect. You two were perfect again. You just wished it could be like that all the time.
Author: acrylicktears
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon.
POV: 2nd.
Summary: You were just going to keep your eyes on the road, keep driving, that’s what he wanted. You always did what he wanted.
Disclaimer: This is incredibly fake. A figment of my imagination.
Dedications: Skylar (bound_andgagged) & Wifey (battmobile) and anyone that reads this.
1537 words of me not knowing what the fuck I’m writing. Thanks to Brand New for giving me the inspiration. And Chris Donathon. Listen to Fer Sure, you'll be able to pick up the references.
The strip sped past you, lightning quick, red, blue, green, yellow, white white white. You glanced over to him, nervous. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know why you were doing it. Well, at least you couldn’t remember that much.
He was hunched forward, no seatbelt, close to the dashboard, too close if you had to stop suddenly. The bright lights flashed off the blade he held, quick, bright, there and gone again. White particles were sticking to the edge, small, you couldn’t really see them; you just knew they were there. He had the small plastic zip bag sitting in his lap, one bony hand clutching it tightly, so tight his knuckles were turning white.
You stopped staring at him, turned your focus back to the road. You needed it. You needed to concentrate, or something bad might happen. Even if you concentrated, something bad could still happen. There was always that chance. A car could turn out of a hidden side street, then bang. A person could run across the road, then bang. Other things could happen, but you couldn’t think of them right now.
The car was moving too fast, you knew that. A cop could be around any corner, watching, waiting for intoxicated people like you. You didn’t let up on the gas pedal, though. You kept it where it was, almost to the floor. Your car wasn’t that fast anyway. Fucking piece of junk. It broke down all the time. You just didn’t have the kind of money it would take to fix it, or even buy a new one. Oh, how you’d love a new car. But right then, how shitty your car happens to be wasn’t the point.
The point was that you still had no fucking clue what you were doing, but you didn’t want to interrupt him. He got pissed when he was interrupted while cutting lines. You knew that, and you didn’t want him to be pissed at you, so you weren’t going to ask. You were just going to keep your eyes on the road, keep driving, that’s what he wanted. You always did what he wanted. If it was going to make him happy, you did it. That’s why you were driving down the strip at five-fucking-billion miles an hour. Because it’s what he wanted.
You fumbled for something beside your seat. Your drink, you wanted your drink. Somehow, he knew that, and there it was, in his hand, pushing into your empty palm. You flashed a quick grin at him, mumbling something that sounded like a thank you, just maybe. You took a swig, the liquid bitter, burning, burning your throat. But you liked it, you liked the burn. You took another, and another, and then it was all gone.
You crushed the can in your palm, aluminum collapsing in on itself, breaking down. You dropped the can to the floor, already littered with cans from other trips, cigarettes, gum, you didn’t know what else. Honestly, you didn’t want to know.
“Turn here,” Finally, his voice. Raspy, scratching, cold, a million other things that you couldn’t quite place. His voice used to be soft, caring, a million other things that you missed. That was a long time ago, though. Before all this started. The drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, casual sex, danger danger danger. It was all bad, you knew it was, but you did it because that’s what he wanted.
“Bren, turn here,” His voice again. That voice. You were supposed to be doing something, his tone said. Then it clicked. Oh, turn here. So you did. You turned sharp, the car skidding, the tires letting out a painful screech. Sorry, you whispered. But you were talking to tires, they weren’t going to respond. So you frowned instead.
You could hear him snorting the lines now, the sound lasting three seconds. You knew this because you counted. The sound started, then one, two, three, and it finished. Maybe he counted too, you didn’t know. It repeated three times, then silence. And then you figured, maybe if he talked to you, you could talk to him first. And you did.
“What are we doing?” Your voice came out shaky, scared. You weren’t scared, just confused. It was a while before he answered, or at least it felt like it.
“We’re going to The Special Place, Bren.” Ah, now that’s something you could remember. The Special Place. You hadn’t been there for a while. You liked it there. You liked the things that happened there. It was there that he seemed almost normal again. Almost.
There was another sound, plastic this time. He was either opening the bag with the powder in it, or he had another one. You felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned your head, your eyes meeting his. Bloodshot, wild, dark, that’s what you saw. That was another thing you missed; his eyes. They used to be so pretty, so beautiful. Right now you hated everything for doing this to him. You wanted the old him back, the nice one. But that wasn’t going to happen.
His hand squeezed, soft. You had to start paying attention again, that’s what the squeeze meant. He was holding out something, a pill. Oh yeah, you forgot he had them. You took it, put it on your tongue, turned your attention back to the road. The lights were gone now, you were nearly there. He squeezed again; you held out your hand, he gave you a bottle of water. You took a drink, swallowing the pill and holding the bottle back out to him.
He took it from your grasp, you heard a gulp, the cap being screwed back on. He dropped the bottle to the floor. And his hand was gone, the spot it had been left cold. Then his voice again, “Stop now, Bren. Over there.” He pointed, and you parked where he told you to. You cut the engine, the car spluttering before going silent.
A pop, rustle of plastic, another pop. He had put the bags in the glove compartment. You didn’t know what else he had in there, and right now, you didn’t care. His door opened, his seat creaked, and the door slammed shut. You got out, leaving the keys in the ignition; no one else came here, anyway.
Blind hands reached out towards you, and there he was. His lips on yours, his tongue in your mouth, he tasted like a mixture of alcohol and something else, you didn’t know what. Then he was gone again, his hand tight around yours, pulling, leading you to the place where he became almost normal again, and so did you, maybe.
He pulled, tugged, you were supposed to be walking faster. You thought if you walked faster, you might just trip, end up on the ground, face first in the damp grass. You didn’t want that, but you tried to walk faster anyway. Somehow, you made it. Your head was buzzing as you lowered yourself to the scratchy picnic blanket you’d stolen from your mom. You two always kept that blanket there, ever since the first time.
Suddenly, he was in your lap, his hands tangling in your hair, his tongue probing inside your mouth. He pushed you backwards, gentle, his mouth not parting from yours. You shifted under him, there was something poking you in the back, sharp. A rock, maybe. You’d have to cope, you weren’t moving now.
Then his hand was at your belt, skilled, pulling it off, throwing it further into the shelter. Then his hand was back, ripping at your pants, pulling, wanting to get in, needing, begging. He succeeded and your too tight jeans were gone, down around your ankles. Loss of contact, he moved. Just for a moment, you felt cold, empty, and then he was back, his finger probing, then another, and then him, hot, hot heat. Burning, it was burning, but he was kissing you, tender, loving, and it was all okay again.
Pressure, heat, burning, empty, wet. So many sensations all at once, your brain was having a hard time keeping up, but you managed. You were close, so close. You guessed he was, too. Panting, hot breathing, moans, profanities filled the stale air as you both came in time, him collapsing on top of you, hot skin against hot skin, slipping, sliding.
He rolled off you, leaving you to feel cold, sticky, alone. You felt him squirm beside you, trying to get comfortable. An arm then slid around your waist, pulling you close, tracing patterns with long fingers, callused fingertips. His breathing calmed, now closer to your ear. “I love you, Brendon.” He breathed, hot, sharp teeth nipping at your ear lobe.
You tried to roll over, get closer to him, you wanted it, needed it, craved it. Your gaze met his. Although you were seeing through blurry vision, his eyes were soft, calm. Almost normal. “I love you too, Ryan.”
It was times like this you missed. They only happened once in a while, but when they did, it was perfect. You two were perfect again. You just wished it could be like that all the time.