Bulls Make Money, Bears Make Money, Pigs Get Slaughtered. (So Kill Me)
Title: Bulls Make Money, Bears Make Money, Pigs Get Slaughtered. (So Kill Me)
Chapter:
Author:
americanaffair
Beta:
Pairing: Unimpllied but intended Jalex
Rating: R
POV: 3rd
Summary: Do you know what happens to people like me?
Warning: Angst. BDSM themes.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the intended people. I just borrow them for my own personal purposes.
Author Notes: Don't ask me where this came from. I thought up the first bit and just felt compelled to keep going. It's much shorter than something I would normally write, but it's long enough that I wanted to share it. Roughly nine hundred words. Anywho, the christmas fic thing is up on my livejournal. Writing those is very, very fun for me. Forgive the formating, how Livejournal did that is out of my control and I can't change it. Just think of it as an artistic style.
With your heart in your throat and your head in the clouds, whisper, “I don't know what I've become.”
When the face in the mirror is a brutal portrayal of mixed emotions and broken spirits.
Throw up.
The sadness that cannot be escaped, the unfortunately crippling reality.
Self destruction is the only way to survive.
Breaking down like a cardboard box. Tears falling like rain. It feels so right to be so wrong. The reassurance in being incorrect is, still, a reassurance. At least you know where you are. At least there's a level of awareness regarding what path has been chosen and where it leads.
Sweetheart, you broke me. Built me up like a monstrosity of a sky scraper and plunged into me like a wrecking ball.
With my heart in my throat, if I throw up, will I finally vomit these feelings I no longer desire?
I've got your pictures in my piggy bank of a brain. Care enough to smash that as well?
Do you have any idea what kind of creature I become when I don't have you to feed off of? What sort of
sick things I do when I need you? You have no idea what kind of fuck up, dependent, idiotic fool I am.
Do you know what happens to people like me?
Let me tell you.
It was late at night, early morning.
Insomnia forbids red eyes from closing. Heart beats that rattle the collarbone forbid anxiety from ceasing.
I can't sleep to the sounds of cars speeding by on the pavement. I can't sleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping. I can't sleep to the sound of the ocean. I can't sleep to the sound of the jungle. I can't fucking sleep.
Stop. Don't care too much, because I simply do not, and never have, mattered.
“You awake?” It's mostly a stage whisper, there's a high intensity of doubt that anyone gives a damn
if I'm still up. To the people I live with, I'm already dead.
“Now,” you respond. Croaky, tired. Gorgeous, perfect. God, just touch me.
“I can't sleep.” Please, I need you. Please, I want you. Please, I'd do anything for you. Please.
“You never can,” you muse. Muse. My muse. Mine. Be mine, I'll be yours.
“It's especially bad tonight.” Friction, friction, give me high school science classes.
“How am I supposed to help you?” You are. Your hands would help more. God forsaken infatuation.
“You always find a way,” I murmur. You know. You know. You fucking know.
“Tonight? Really?” Every night. Every hour. Every minute. All over, forever.
Stop. Catch your breath. Let me tell my story the way I like it told.
“I-”
“If you need it this bad, you should already know how this works.” Yes, yes. More. More. Shake, quiver,
anticipation to the point it hurts. Stomach twists. Butterflies, all the time. Beg.
“Yes,” I hiss. I cringe. I cry. I choke. I spit. I laugh. I smile. I don't know. Tell me what to know. Tell me who to be. Tell me who I should be.
“How was your day?” Fuck, that casual tone. Fuck, that casual everything. Fuck, why aren't you here. Fuck, me.
“Awful.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” You beautiful sinner. I'll be your hideous slave.
“I want to hear you say it.” Tsk, tsk. I hate when you tsk, tsk. I hate this control. Turn me off, I've been on all fucking day.
“Bruises.” Beautiful purple, heavenly green, gorgeous yellow.
“You wouldn't have it any other way,” you're smirking. Your lips. Anywhere. Your tongue. Everywhere.
“Sitting down's a bitch.” Give me pain to give me ecstasy.
“More like, you're a bitch. More like, you love sitting down. Why?”
Choking. Can't breathe. Choking. Save me.
“I said, why?”
“Because I know.” I know, I know, I know.
“I don't give a fuck. Tell me. I want to hear you say it.” You love hearing. I wonder if this turns you on. Knowing the power. Or do you string me along for the fun of the theatrics. You theater whore. Dramatics slut. I love it.
“Because it reminds me of you. Us. Reminds me I'm yours.” Bump, grind. Dirty, slow. Easy, sleazy,
lemon peasy.
Stop. This better not be turning you on.
“Damn straight. Belong to me.” Pant, pant. Moan, groan. This is not enough. This will never be
enough. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you.”
“Tell me you need me.”
“I need you.” Like you didn't already fucking know.
“Beg, you worthless cunt.” Oh. Oh. Oh. Stutter. So close. “Don't. Not before me. Fucking slut.”
“Please, please, please.” Breath is heavy out my red lips. “I want you. Hurt me. Hurt me.” Hurt me
so I can feel. Hurt me so I'm less alone when I'm by myself.
“Tomorrow, my place. Nine. D-Don't b-be. Fuck.” Me. “You stupid.” Object. “Late.” Never.
“Can I?”
“Yeah, yeah, it's okay.”
Lights. Stars. Leather. PVC. Baby, don't call me baby.
“Nine?”
“Nine.”
Hang up, cause' I'm fucking tired now.
Chapter:
Author:
americanaffair
Beta:
Pairing: Unimpllied but intended Jalex
Rating: R
POV: 3rd
Summary: Do you know what happens to people like me?
Warning: Angst. BDSM themes.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the intended people. I just borrow them for my own personal purposes.
Author Notes: Don't ask me where this came from. I thought up the first bit and just felt compelled to keep going. It's much shorter than something I would normally write, but it's long enough that I wanted to share it. Roughly nine hundred words. Anywho, the christmas fic thing is up on my livejournal. Writing those is very, very fun for me. Forgive the formating, how Livejournal did that is out of my control and I can't change it. Just think of it as an artistic style.
With your heart in your throat and your head in the clouds, whisper, “I don't know what I've become.”
When the face in the mirror is a brutal portrayal of mixed emotions and broken spirits.
Throw up.
The sadness that cannot be escaped, the unfortunately crippling reality.
Self destruction is the only way to survive.
Breaking down like a cardboard box. Tears falling like rain. It feels so right to be so wrong. The reassurance in being incorrect is, still, a reassurance. At least you know where you are. At least there's a level of awareness regarding what path has been chosen and where it leads.
Sweetheart, you broke me. Built me up like a monstrosity of a sky scraper and plunged into me like a wrecking ball.
With my heart in my throat, if I throw up, will I finally vomit these feelings I no longer desire?
I've got your pictures in my piggy bank of a brain. Care enough to smash that as well?
Do you have any idea what kind of creature I become when I don't have you to feed off of? What sort of
sick things I do when I need you? You have no idea what kind of fuck up, dependent, idiotic fool I am.
Do you know what happens to people like me?
Let me tell you.
It was late at night, early morning.
Insomnia forbids red eyes from closing. Heart beats that rattle the collarbone forbid anxiety from ceasing.
I can't sleep to the sounds of cars speeding by on the pavement. I can't sleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping. I can't sleep to the sound of the ocean. I can't sleep to the sound of the jungle. I can't fucking sleep.
Stop. Don't care too much, because I simply do not, and never have, mattered.
“You awake?” It's mostly a stage whisper, there's a high intensity of doubt that anyone gives a damn
if I'm still up. To the people I live with, I'm already dead.
“Now,” you respond. Croaky, tired. Gorgeous, perfect. God, just touch me.
“I can't sleep.” Please, I need you. Please, I want you. Please, I'd do anything for you. Please.
“You never can,” you muse. Muse. My muse. Mine. Be mine, I'll be yours.
“It's especially bad tonight.” Friction, friction, give me high school science classes.
“How am I supposed to help you?” You are. Your hands would help more. God forsaken infatuation.
“You always find a way,” I murmur. You know. You know. You fucking know.
“Tonight? Really?” Every night. Every hour. Every minute. All over, forever.
Stop. Catch your breath. Let me tell my story the way I like it told.
“I-”
“If you need it this bad, you should already know how this works.” Yes, yes. More. More. Shake, quiver,
anticipation to the point it hurts. Stomach twists. Butterflies, all the time. Beg.
“Yes,” I hiss. I cringe. I cry. I choke. I spit. I laugh. I smile. I don't know. Tell me what to know. Tell me who to be. Tell me who I should be.
“How was your day?” Fuck, that casual tone. Fuck, that casual everything. Fuck, why aren't you here. Fuck, me.
“Awful.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” You beautiful sinner. I'll be your hideous slave.
“I want to hear you say it.” Tsk, tsk. I hate when you tsk, tsk. I hate this control. Turn me off, I've been on all fucking day.
“Bruises.” Beautiful purple, heavenly green, gorgeous yellow.
“You wouldn't have it any other way,” you're smirking. Your lips. Anywhere. Your tongue. Everywhere.
“Sitting down's a bitch.” Give me pain to give me ecstasy.
“More like, you're a bitch. More like, you love sitting down. Why?”
Choking. Can't breathe. Choking. Save me.
“I said, why?”
“Because I know.” I know, I know, I know.
“I don't give a fuck. Tell me. I want to hear you say it.” You love hearing. I wonder if this turns you on. Knowing the power. Or do you string me along for the fun of the theatrics. You theater whore. Dramatics slut. I love it.
“Because it reminds me of you. Us. Reminds me I'm yours.” Bump, grind. Dirty, slow. Easy, sleazy,
lemon peasy.
Stop. This better not be turning you on.
“Damn straight. Belong to me.” Pant, pant. Moan, groan. This is not enough. This will never be
enough. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you.”
“Tell me you need me.”
“I need you.” Like you didn't already fucking know.
“Beg, you worthless cunt.” Oh. Oh. Oh. Stutter. So close. “Don't. Not before me. Fucking slut.”
“Please, please, please.” Breath is heavy out my red lips. “I want you. Hurt me. Hurt me.” Hurt me
so I can feel. Hurt me so I'm less alone when I'm by myself.
“Tomorrow, my place. Nine. D-Don't b-be. Fuck.” Me. “You stupid.” Object. “Late.” Never.
“Can I?”
“Yeah, yeah, it's okay.”
Lights. Stars. Leather. PVC. Baby, don't call me baby.
“Nine?”
“Nine.”
Hang up, cause' I'm fucking tired now.