I still think of you/placebo slash
I heard this awesome song called 'But Then, I Still Think About You' and got inspired for this story.
title:I still think of you
author:bitexmarks
rating:
pairing:brian's thoughts of Steven.H while being with Steve.F
note:rar
note2:it's a bit confusing with the pronouns, but I meant it that way.
The car’s heading down the lonely road, in the postcards route 66 never looked like this. He sits in the driver’s seat, eyes locked onto the road. There’s nothing but dust and dirt for miles and miles and some electro song’s playing on the radio. It’s two am and I wonder if he knows where we’re headed.
Take a left here, I say and he nods to me. I am mellow or so it seems, yet my mind is thrashing around with thoughts.
Summer comes taunting, it reminds me of Paris and the beautiful cobblestone roads of Rome.
The car we bought for three grand is a beat up old Mustang that had definitely seen better days.
Rolled down window, I let myself half-hang out of it as he tells me to be careful, he may run into a cactus and I would turn into a porcupine. I did not find it funny.
There was hardly a breeze, how can people stand this smothering heat? It feels like I am in a furnace, it’s hot and I am not in a very good mood.
Here, have some of this, and he offers me the bottle of vodka we bought a few hours back. Why the fuck did we buy vodka on a hot summer’s night? Maybe because we used to drink it while driving down empty roads when we were still friends. Fuck this, my happy thoughts have bailed, I think they took off just before we entered this too long, too pained road. The music still pumps its robotic sounds, it’s kind of nice.
I unscrew the cap and take a swig. I almost gag it tastes that bad. First of all vodka is not supposed to be this hot, but I drink anyway, I will pretend it is lava scorching at my vocal cords. Maybe if I drink enough when I open my mouth to scream he will think it a gesture of ecstasy and will not know better.
Fuck what if I told him that I still thought of him, what would he do? Would he dump me here and leave me for the coyotes to feast upon? All they’d find is bones and my skin would be too tough to chew, plus he always said I tasted like lemons, sour. Do coyotes like lemons? I don’t think so, so he better not leave me stranded on the side of the road.
Miles and years later we come to a rundown Motel. The sign says ‘vacancy’ so he pulls in telling me he's too wiped to drive anymore. I agree, it’s late and we’re both uncomfortable from the night’s air.
The man behind the counter is not asleep, he is watching some re-runs of Hee-Haw, laughing with a smoker’s voice. He looks at us from under his straw hat and asks us if we’d like two rooms. When you tell him no he looks at us funny, and tells us he don’t like queers when you tell him it would be fine if the room had a double bed.
He gets angry, yet he keep it bottled up inside, so unlike him. If he were here he would have grabbed the red-neck by the collar and would have dragged him out on his ass beating him senseless. But, I keep forgetting...you are not him.
I push past you and tell the guy we’re not queers and I am a girl. He looks me over then reddens, sorry miss, I thought... but I just take the key and lead you to room 49.
He rides me gently as the wind tries in desperation to blow in though the open window. The world has fallen silent, sleeping soundly under a pale moon. I can feel him deep inside me, crying out my name so many times that I have come to think that it’s the only word he knows.
Shut up already and get it over with so I can sleep. Then with sleep will come dreaming, and in my dreams I can pretend everything is the way it was back when we were still all right.
Then he comes softly. Others would have killed to have his soft, perfect body atop them making melodically sounds with every breath he took. But not me. I liked him better than you.
I watch him as he curls up and goes to sleep, blond hair casts the false illusion that he is angelic, but the tattoos tell me otherwise...you’re just a punk kid....
I can hear him breathing as he lays there slumbering. The sun will come up in a few hours and I have no desire to be here. I close my eyes and turn my back to him, why is it that no matter what I do I still think of you?
bitexmarks
title:I still think of you
author:bitexmarks
rating:
pairing:brian's thoughts of Steven.H while being with Steve.F
note:rar
note2:it's a bit confusing with the pronouns, but I meant it that way.
The car’s heading down the lonely road, in the postcards route 66 never looked like this. He sits in the driver’s seat, eyes locked onto the road. There’s nothing but dust and dirt for miles and miles and some electro song’s playing on the radio. It’s two am and I wonder if he knows where we’re headed.
Take a left here, I say and he nods to me. I am mellow or so it seems, yet my mind is thrashing around with thoughts.
Summer comes taunting, it reminds me of Paris and the beautiful cobblestone roads of Rome.
The car we bought for three grand is a beat up old Mustang that had definitely seen better days.
Rolled down window, I let myself half-hang out of it as he tells me to be careful, he may run into a cactus and I would turn into a porcupine. I did not find it funny.
There was hardly a breeze, how can people stand this smothering heat? It feels like I am in a furnace, it’s hot and I am not in a very good mood.
Here, have some of this, and he offers me the bottle of vodka we bought a few hours back. Why the fuck did we buy vodka on a hot summer’s night? Maybe because we used to drink it while driving down empty roads when we were still friends. Fuck this, my happy thoughts have bailed, I think they took off just before we entered this too long, too pained road. The music still pumps its robotic sounds, it’s kind of nice.
I unscrew the cap and take a swig. I almost gag it tastes that bad. First of all vodka is not supposed to be this hot, but I drink anyway, I will pretend it is lava scorching at my vocal cords. Maybe if I drink enough when I open my mouth to scream he will think it a gesture of ecstasy and will not know better.
Fuck what if I told him that I still thought of him, what would he do? Would he dump me here and leave me for the coyotes to feast upon? All they’d find is bones and my skin would be too tough to chew, plus he always said I tasted like lemons, sour. Do coyotes like lemons? I don’t think so, so he better not leave me stranded on the side of the road.
Miles and years later we come to a rundown Motel. The sign says ‘vacancy’ so he pulls in telling me he's too wiped to drive anymore. I agree, it’s late and we’re both uncomfortable from the night’s air.
The man behind the counter is not asleep, he is watching some re-runs of Hee-Haw, laughing with a smoker’s voice. He looks at us from under his straw hat and asks us if we’d like two rooms. When you tell him no he looks at us funny, and tells us he don’t like queers when you tell him it would be fine if the room had a double bed.
He gets angry, yet he keep it bottled up inside, so unlike him. If he were here he would have grabbed the red-neck by the collar and would have dragged him out on his ass beating him senseless. But, I keep forgetting...you are not him.
I push past you and tell the guy we’re not queers and I am a girl. He looks me over then reddens, sorry miss, I thought... but I just take the key and lead you to room 49.
He rides me gently as the wind tries in desperation to blow in though the open window. The world has fallen silent, sleeping soundly under a pale moon. I can feel him deep inside me, crying out my name so many times that I have come to think that it’s the only word he knows.
Shut up already and get it over with so I can sleep. Then with sleep will come dreaming, and in my dreams I can pretend everything is the way it was back when we were still all right.
Then he comes softly. Others would have killed to have his soft, perfect body atop them making melodically sounds with every breath he took. But not me. I liked him better than you.
I watch him as he curls up and goes to sleep, blond hair casts the false illusion that he is angelic, but the tattoos tell me otherwise...you’re just a punk kid....
I can hear him breathing as he lays there slumbering. The sun will come up in a few hours and I have no desire to be here. I close my eyes and turn my back to him, why is it that no matter what I do I still think of you?
bitexmarks