(no subject)
Title: Hopeless Enough
Author/Artist: traumatic_bunny
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: het/slash sexual situations and angst, again - a lot of it
Word count: 1399
Summary: Then, it was you and your ideas, your enthusiasm, your words... and your olive skin, your defined abs and that patch of hair disappearing under your waistband. And the memory of you in the dark corner of the club, with some scrawny scene boy on your lap, kissing like there was no tomorrow.
A/N: I'm killing time on Valentines... Only when I had it finished it came to me when exactly I'm going to post it. It's such a well fitting story for that day. Embrace the irony ;)
Again - big thankyou's to shakedown_9th for being my amazing beta.
1.
The bed is soft, even a bit too soft for my taste, the mattress dipping too much under our combined weight. She's pressed so hard to me, her body taut and lithe. I'm fondling her full breasts, too full and too hard for them to be natural but I don't care. I was never a fan of boobs anyway. Her hands, her lips are everywhere, moving along my body without hesitation, making me think she's done that before, countless times, just the same way. It's a good rehearsed role so why change it for yet another guy?
She's moaning, whispering my name in deep, urging voice - and I can't answer her, because I don't really know hers. I'm sure she introduced herself at some point but I don't really care that much about it to remember. She'll be gone soon anyway, just another fucking notch on my bedpost.
“I wanna ride you,” she says, already rolling the condom on me and I look up and see her, see that she's beautiful, flawless, perfect. I hate her now, I hate how artificial she seems, how unreal and so I just grab her arm, yanking her down, throwing her onto the mattress. She giggles but I can see traces of fear in her big blue eyes. I like that she's not so goddamn confident anymore. I like the fact that she seems to consider retreating from all the fun. I'm not letting her think too much; I just lift her legs and enter her, with one swift move.
She's arching under me and she feels good, hot and tight as I fuck her hard, harder than I probably really need to. And she loves it, she fucking loves it, moaning her appreciation aloud. She's arching her back, rocking her hips, her thighs are around me, her hands on my back, long nails digging into my skin, hard, leaving long red marks no one will ever see. And I fuck her, hard, harder than I really need, looking at her fake, perfect face as I finally come.
2.
“I knew it's true when they say the quiet ones are the wildest ones,” she says, or rather purrs into my ear, pressing herself tightly to my side, obviously content and satisfied. And I hold her for a moment, I even kiss her, even though I still hate her perfect face. I don't leave that ridiculously soft bed, don't run to the shower to scrub her off of my skin right after the used condom lands in the waste bin. I stay there, for a minute longer than I really want because I'm also the nice one.
Then, I just stutter something about how good it was and how much fun I had, abusing the fact that I'm also 'the shy one' and she only smiles, stretching her perfect body on her perfect bed, watching me as I dress hastily, and she doesn't even try to hide the fact that it's me who's just another notch on her stylish bedpost.
***
I left my phone in the car and there's only one message waiting for me.
was she worth a song?
I smile, or at least I try, even though you can't see me. A habit, I guess. Just a line, I type quickly and send before I change my mind.
My back stings and I start my car, pressing at the gas pedal a bit too hard, making the tires screech.
I know you're probably laughing right now, reading my words, thinking it's a really good joke, just like every time we're quoting one of our songs in such a different context. You're smiling, maybe even thinking of me fondly, just like you always do. And just like every time, you don't understand any fucking thing.
3.
Before I met you, everything was simple. I was dreaming about blonde girls with big boobs, I was jerking off to the memory of Sally Jones and her mini skirt riding up so high that one could see her creamy thighs and pink lace of her panties.
Then, it was you and your ideas, your enthusiasm, your words... and your olive skin, your defined abs and that patch of hair disappearing under your waistband. And the memory of you in the dark corner of the club, with some scrawny scene boy on your lap, kissing like there was no tomorrow.
***
You weren't exactly edge back then, and you weren't exactly straight either. You would kiss me and your lips would taste like a cheap beer or sour whiskey. You'd kiss me in the back of the van until I was aching all over, hard and desperate, and you'd tell me 'No, Paddy, I can't. You're a friend and you don't fuck friends, Paddy. You don't fuck friendship.'
You'd never call me 'Paddy' while sober.
You'd never kiss me while sober.
4.
“It's so wonderful when your girlfriend is also your friend,” you say with that brilliant smile of yours and the interviewer smiles back, content with your answer. I smile as well; I've learned a lot about smiling during last few years. I've also learned a lot about your friends and lovers. More than I'd ever wanted.
***
She broke you so many times that I was surprised you're still holding together. I guess music was the glue. You wanted to finish the record, then you wanted to promote it really well so they'd finally see how good we were.
We couldn't really see how bad it was, you always had a smile for us, a reassurance that everything was fine. You crumbled down only once, after some promo shit and I just took you home, to sit with you on my couch while you were sobbing in my arms, clinging to me desperately and asking me over and over again to stay with you, to never leave you.
You wanted reassurance and I gave it to you. You wanted comfort and that's what you got from me. You wanted to feel needed, cared for, loved. It's not our fault that sex is the easiest way to show it.
By the time I woke up, you were gone and we never talked about it again.
***
The Best Buy incident meant many different things for many different people.
For me it only meant I wasn't good enough.
5.
Another night, another party, another smile plastered to my face. I'm not a party person but sometimes I just can't say no. I can't, not when you come to me, telling me how important it is for the band, how important it is to you and so I'm coming to spend a few hours with people I don't really care about, engaged in mindless chats and fake smiling.
She's there too, of course, and I wish I could not hate her. I wish I could not hate how well she can understand you, how well she seems to know you after only a few months. I wish I could not hate the way she knows just what to say or do to make you better.
I wish I could not hate you because you've chosen her when you already had me. I wish. But I can't.
I hate you with her.
I hate that you're happy.
***
I also wish I could say that he tastes like you, only sweeter. You would surely appreciate it if I quoted like that. And you would laugh, just like any other time. But I'll never say it, I wouldn't be able to lie like that.
He doesn't taste like you, not even half as sweet as you felt on my tongue that one night and I hate him for that. I hate the way he likes it, I hate the way he says my name, hushed whispers in a small cubicle, all but white lights and cold tiles.
I hate that cliché.
He takes me the way you never will and he loves it, he loves my hate and begs for more and I hate his voice, so I fuck him, hard, harder than I really need, just to make him scream my name the way you did just that one time, to make him cry, to taste his tears, his pain, the pain that I will never give you.
I hope you feel the same way, too, every time you fuck her.
Author/Artist: traumatic_bunny
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: het/slash sexual situations and angst, again - a lot of it
Word count: 1399
Summary: Then, it was you and your ideas, your enthusiasm, your words... and your olive skin, your defined abs and that patch of hair disappearing under your waistband. And the memory of you in the dark corner of the club, with some scrawny scene boy on your lap, kissing like there was no tomorrow.
A/N: I'm killing time on Valentines... Only when I had it finished it came to me when exactly I'm going to post it. It's such a well fitting story for that day. Embrace the irony ;)
Again - big thankyou's to shakedown_9th for being my amazing beta.
1.
The bed is soft, even a bit too soft for my taste, the mattress dipping too much under our combined weight. She's pressed so hard to me, her body taut and lithe. I'm fondling her full breasts, too full and too hard for them to be natural but I don't care. I was never a fan of boobs anyway. Her hands, her lips are everywhere, moving along my body without hesitation, making me think she's done that before, countless times, just the same way. It's a good rehearsed role so why change it for yet another guy?
She's moaning, whispering my name in deep, urging voice - and I can't answer her, because I don't really know hers. I'm sure she introduced herself at some point but I don't really care that much about it to remember. She'll be gone soon anyway, just another fucking notch on my bedpost.
“I wanna ride you,” she says, already rolling the condom on me and I look up and see her, see that she's beautiful, flawless, perfect. I hate her now, I hate how artificial she seems, how unreal and so I just grab her arm, yanking her down, throwing her onto the mattress. She giggles but I can see traces of fear in her big blue eyes. I like that she's not so goddamn confident anymore. I like the fact that she seems to consider retreating from all the fun. I'm not letting her think too much; I just lift her legs and enter her, with one swift move.
She's arching under me and she feels good, hot and tight as I fuck her hard, harder than I probably really need to. And she loves it, she fucking loves it, moaning her appreciation aloud. She's arching her back, rocking her hips, her thighs are around me, her hands on my back, long nails digging into my skin, hard, leaving long red marks no one will ever see. And I fuck her, hard, harder than I really need, looking at her fake, perfect face as I finally come.
2.
“I knew it's true when they say the quiet ones are the wildest ones,” she says, or rather purrs into my ear, pressing herself tightly to my side, obviously content and satisfied. And I hold her for a moment, I even kiss her, even though I still hate her perfect face. I don't leave that ridiculously soft bed, don't run to the shower to scrub her off of my skin right after the used condom lands in the waste bin. I stay there, for a minute longer than I really want because I'm also the nice one.
Then, I just stutter something about how good it was and how much fun I had, abusing the fact that I'm also 'the shy one' and she only smiles, stretching her perfect body on her perfect bed, watching me as I dress hastily, and she doesn't even try to hide the fact that it's me who's just another notch on her stylish bedpost.
***
I left my phone in the car and there's only one message waiting for me.
was she worth a song?
I smile, or at least I try, even though you can't see me. A habit, I guess. Just a line, I type quickly and send before I change my mind.
My back stings and I start my car, pressing at the gas pedal a bit too hard, making the tires screech.
I know you're probably laughing right now, reading my words, thinking it's a really good joke, just like every time we're quoting one of our songs in such a different context. You're smiling, maybe even thinking of me fondly, just like you always do. And just like every time, you don't understand any fucking thing.
3.
Before I met you, everything was simple. I was dreaming about blonde girls with big boobs, I was jerking off to the memory of Sally Jones and her mini skirt riding up so high that one could see her creamy thighs and pink lace of her panties.
Then, it was you and your ideas, your enthusiasm, your words... and your olive skin, your defined abs and that patch of hair disappearing under your waistband. And the memory of you in the dark corner of the club, with some scrawny scene boy on your lap, kissing like there was no tomorrow.
***
You weren't exactly edge back then, and you weren't exactly straight either. You would kiss me and your lips would taste like a cheap beer or sour whiskey. You'd kiss me in the back of the van until I was aching all over, hard and desperate, and you'd tell me 'No, Paddy, I can't. You're a friend and you don't fuck friends, Paddy. You don't fuck friendship.'
You'd never call me 'Paddy' while sober.
You'd never kiss me while sober.
4.
“It's so wonderful when your girlfriend is also your friend,” you say with that brilliant smile of yours and the interviewer smiles back, content with your answer. I smile as well; I've learned a lot about smiling during last few years. I've also learned a lot about your friends and lovers. More than I'd ever wanted.
***
She broke you so many times that I was surprised you're still holding together. I guess music was the glue. You wanted to finish the record, then you wanted to promote it really well so they'd finally see how good we were.
We couldn't really see how bad it was, you always had a smile for us, a reassurance that everything was fine. You crumbled down only once, after some promo shit and I just took you home, to sit with you on my couch while you were sobbing in my arms, clinging to me desperately and asking me over and over again to stay with you, to never leave you.
You wanted reassurance and I gave it to you. You wanted comfort and that's what you got from me. You wanted to feel needed, cared for, loved. It's not our fault that sex is the easiest way to show it.
By the time I woke up, you were gone and we never talked about it again.
***
The Best Buy incident meant many different things for many different people.
For me it only meant I wasn't good enough.
5.
Another night, another party, another smile plastered to my face. I'm not a party person but sometimes I just can't say no. I can't, not when you come to me, telling me how important it is for the band, how important it is to you and so I'm coming to spend a few hours with people I don't really care about, engaged in mindless chats and fake smiling.
She's there too, of course, and I wish I could not hate her. I wish I could not hate how well she can understand you, how well she seems to know you after only a few months. I wish I could not hate the way she knows just what to say or do to make you better.
I wish I could not hate you because you've chosen her when you already had me. I wish. But I can't.
I hate you with her.
I hate that you're happy.
***
I also wish I could say that he tastes like you, only sweeter. You would surely appreciate it if I quoted like that. And you would laugh, just like any other time. But I'll never say it, I wouldn't be able to lie like that.
He doesn't taste like you, not even half as sweet as you felt on my tongue that one night and I hate him for that. I hate the way he likes it, I hate the way he says my name, hushed whispers in a small cubicle, all but white lights and cold tiles.
I hate that cliché.
He takes me the way you never will and he loves it, he loves my hate and begs for more and I hate his voice, so I fuck him, hard, harder than I really need, just to make him scream my name the way you did just that one time, to make him cry, to taste his tears, his pain, the pain that I will never give you.
I hope you feel the same way, too, every time you fuck her.