i just knew i'd find you here.
fandom: House of Leaves/Fight Club
rating: R
genre: Gen
word count: 293
warning: Q-questionably worksafe?
As the tape in the answering machine whirs, the steady click of it taping over itself, all of Johnny's bones, they just lock up. Johnny Truant, he's got one eye swollen shut, his cheek throbbing numb from Joe Blow's fist, and he's digging around for an ounce of pot, something to get his mind of this.
And on the answering machine, Marla's saying, "You know, even if you aren't Tyler, I still want to do you." She says, "I know you're one of those skinny crackhead artists types, just from what I hear in the background."
Johnny's fumbling for a lighter, and she whispers, "I get off to you holding me against you, breasts smashed against your too-hollow chest. You, fucking me, your face stone-cold and dripping ennui."
He counts numbers. He knocks SOS against his wall, his fist banging short-long-short against spool over spool of measuring tape, just like Holloway, and Marla, her message just won't shut up.
The way her breath smells like cigarette smoke and Cosmopolitans, Johnny swears he can hear it as she says, "I'm fine with you pretending I don't exist after we fuck. I'm used to guys like you ignoring me after they realize I could turn up at their doorstep with their own fetid abortion."
Johnny takes a hit and thinks of Lude: storyteller, no-idea Lude, getting his needle-marked ass slid across the basement of that bar, all those moving bodies of white-colored no ones with no fucking idea about Will Navidson. Marla's probably moving her lipsticked lips all over the receiver of whatever public telephone she's at, telling him to stop jerking her around and get Tyler on the phone, but all Johnny Truant's thinking of is how much he wishes he could have anyone's mind but his, right now.
rating: R
genre: Gen
word count: 293
warning: Q-questionably worksafe?
As the tape in the answering machine whirs, the steady click of it taping over itself, all of Johnny's bones, they just lock up. Johnny Truant, he's got one eye swollen shut, his cheek throbbing numb from Joe Blow's fist, and he's digging around for an ounce of pot, something to get his mind of this.
And on the answering machine, Marla's saying, "You know, even if you aren't Tyler, I still want to do you." She says, "I know you're one of those skinny crackhead artists types, just from what I hear in the background."
Johnny's fumbling for a lighter, and she whispers, "I get off to you holding me against you, breasts smashed against your too-hollow chest. You, fucking me, your face stone-cold and dripping ennui."
He counts numbers. He knocks SOS against his wall, his fist banging short-long-short against spool over spool of measuring tape, just like Holloway, and Marla, her message just won't shut up.
The way her breath smells like cigarette smoke and Cosmopolitans, Johnny swears he can hear it as she says, "I'm fine with you pretending I don't exist after we fuck. I'm used to guys like you ignoring me after they realize I could turn up at their doorstep with their own fetid abortion."
Johnny takes a hit and thinks of Lude: storyteller, no-idea Lude, getting his needle-marked ass slid across the basement of that bar, all those moving bodies of white-colored no ones with no fucking idea about Will Navidson. Marla's probably moving her lipsticked lips all over the receiver of whatever public telephone she's at, telling him to stop jerking her around and get Tyler on the phone, but all Johnny Truant's thinking of is how much he wishes he could have anyone's mind but his, right now.