(no subject)
- Title: The last lines always make you want to cry
- Author: Breaking_vanity.
-Illustrations: losersawhore <3 she’s my lover.
- Pairing: Ryan/Pete. Ryan/Brendon. William Beckett. Mikey Way
- Rating: NC-17. Hardcore.
- Summary:
A Pretty boy with an ugly agenda.
A lover who kisses the tip of your nose.
- POV: Ryan’s
- Authors Note: this is the longest thing I’ve written and it also got quite emotional. Melissa (loserawhore) provided the beauty that is the drawing.
- Dedications: Losersawhore. <3 see. I love her.
- Disclaimer: no we don’t own the beauties.
Pretty boy with an ugly agenda. It’s a welcome change between drunk bastards and violent junkies, but it’s really not okay anyways. Undress yourself bathed in the gloating moonlight, in front of screaming car horns that give you migraines worse than a punch to the face. The boy’s acting like an attention seeking whore and it’s making you sick like the very sight of yourself in the windows. It wouldn’t incessantly bother you save for the fact that tonight you were fucking his. Bought and paid for. Waiting, watching the way he looks at you with a glint in his viciously addicting eyes and features. Shudder, and you want a drink more than you want to quench the desire to run, and risk everything from your life to Brendon’s.
I’ll Put my head down and feel the shame from the boy’s glare own my body. It seeps into the blood that possesses my veins, and I’ll let it leave it’s ugly mark on everything from these lips to this heart.
Why am I calling him a boy when he’s at least in his middle twenties. Why am I letting him touch the insides of my passionate tears. Why is my back still shyly leaning against the wall that provides enough comfort to make me want to rip my arteries out of these fucking bruised wrists.
Minutes pass like the nonstop movement of glistening bodies on the dance floor, the never ending songs, the time that passes you by with the body count of a train wreck. He takes you by the hand, and as much as you want to lean over the edges of the wall that surrounds and empty your lean stomach onto his shoes, it means a death wish you’re not quite sure you want. You bet that the likes of you look like a pretty couple walking down the street and he’s leaning into your slightly shorter frame like you‘re best friends.
What a fucking asshole..
It’s past midnight and the streets are still as busy as the city’s rich nightlife. But yet somehow, the brightly lit club names, the flickering streetlamps, the shadows of light in apartment windows; nothing ever compensates for the lack of visible stars. A little smirk is in order as it might as well be a metaphorical excuse for your life.
Every time, it’s like an unwritten and torturous rule for yourself. Never talk to them. No matter what, none of them will ever feel the sound of your voice. May it be a scream, or a moan, its not for their prying ears. He pushes you into a shitty motel that looks like it won’t be safe let alone clean.
‘Pete Wentz’. You hear the fuckers name and inwardly cringe at the expense of your well kept composure. He grins grabbing the room key from a crusty man that smells worse than an out of order bathroom.
“Hurry up.”
You want to kick yourself for following his orders, but bruises aren’t the ‘in’ thing anymore. It’s like the walk to death row each and every time, but you want to kick yourself for thinking that too, because this wasn’t killing you. Just wounding. And all wounds heal right? Because that’s what Brendon told you, and that’s what you’ve been living off the past few months. You push your hair back with one last little move of defiance and step into the door that he has so kindly opened for you. Deep eyes turn glazed and he has succeeded with pressing you into the bed in a worthless matter of seconds. Pete’s small and short, but with the body of a porn star, and that little bit was a downer for you because he was strong. Toss aside the situation, throw away your dignity, and enjoy this pretty boy fucking you when your boyfriend was across town writing songs about love. Turn it over to the camera, and smile this big fucking grin because a gorgeous blonde girl has just told you this wasn’t really your life, and the second you open your eyes will be the moment everything is perfect again.
Wishes. Roses. Half naked bodies. Your face is pressed into the pillow and he’s holding your hands above your head in a vice grip. You’re breathing hard and tasting salt where your tears had soaked the sheets. You hadn’t felt them fall. You hadn’t been the one to clench your teeth on the loud scream of pain that would have torn your throat to shreds. It wasn’t you that heard the bed creaking and it wasn’t you that was trying to ignore how rapid and desperate his gasps for air had become. How short his groans were getting,. How your whole lower back had turned numb from the pleasure that did nothing to get you off, and the hurt that did everything but straight out pour the salt into your wounds. One more gasp, one more blind thrust and you feel him collapse on you from the exertion.
Get off me
Right now.
But you refuse to talk. And he refuses to take that as it’s meant. Dish out a few well deserved red marks, a few blood stains that leave rusty spots on your shirts. Two swollen eyes and a limp that cripples the hearts of passerby’s, but yet no one has ever tried to stop you. No one had ever asked why your head was down, why you were shivering on a hot humid night, why there were angry bruises on your limp wrists. No one ever gave a fuck.
You wished you could blame them.
5 a.m. One tortured beauty. One more wound. One kiss from Brendon that would make everything a little better.
You love him for being up as long as it takes you to get home. A soft knock and he’s opening the door with a hug that makes you sob into his arms. Quietly you hear the door close, and you hear him sigh at the fact that this is what happens nearly every night. You cry, and he rubs your back, and strokes your hair, but it doesn’t take away the used and dirty feeling that showers your body. You wish you were kist coming back drunk from a night of partying, you wish that this was a temporary feeling that would wear off like drugs did. You even wish that he had caught you kissing an intoxicated girl.
But it’s not like that. It’s the tragic story that one ever falls for.
Straight edge is like a death wish.
His hair falls into your face and you try to blow it off, but end up with a loud snort/sob and he cracks a little smile that makes you giggle.
“I promise Ryan, it won’t always be like this…”.
You fall onto his bed together in the form of a small lump, and the concern that washes over his face, and the soft way he kisses you on the tip of your nose is the sun that fights it’s way through the polluted sky. Every day, it battles through the darkness even if it's not to shine as bright as it did a year ago.
Dreams are the only way to live sometimes.
“GET THE FUCK UP.”
You sit up straight alarmed at how angry William sounds and now are even more scared of the fact that he is standing right in front of your bed with an infuriated look painting his stunning facade.
What a fucking way to wake up and feel the coldness that comes with fear laying down stones in the pit of your stomach. You shake a curtain of sweaty and messy hair in front of your face in the attempts to disappear. It never seemed to quite work out that way.
He’s waiting, and you search you mind as fast as possible for an answer to his growing impatience and fury.
“what…William.” Your sound as small as you feel right now with hands that are shaking like you’ve lost all control.
I have
“Did I not Fucking tell you that I wanted to see you today exactly at 2pm. Did I not tell you that you were going to be on time or something bad would happen to someone you happened to care about very, very much?”
He’s smirking now, but his eyes are still the fire that you wouldn’t come within the distance of 20 ft. You feel the force of gravity combined with the shock that invades your heart with the last words that decorate his sentence. Faded. Terrified. You fight the urge to faint, fight the urge to attack him with all the insults, with all the strength you can muster.
“Where is he?” you pull away as soon as the brave words leave your quivering lips.
A wish to regret, William’s fingers curl around your chin in a way that makes you cry out from the sudden surge of pain. One more subconscious attempt to pull away and you’re on the floor trying to stop the blood that your nose is gushing, trying to escape the promise of another broken bone. Because for the stick thin beauty that he is, you’re smaller, weaker, and not worth a damn.
“Stay down there.”
He leaves the room with a small flair, and you crawl until your head finds a comfortable place to rest.
I wont close my eyes
Never give up. Yesterday hurts your memories, but today couldn’t have been worse if you’d tried. You still don’t remember ever promising William that, you still haven’t looked at the clock, or Brendon’s cellphone, or the dimming sun outside. Floating away, and you’re tattooed with a return address.
You hear struggling and feebly lift your head as William struts in giving you a dirty glance that reads absolutely no mercy. A small crack that begins at the edges of your heart and ends with a nuclear explosion overcomes the pain, the embarrassment, the fear as soon as you see Brendon being dragged in by one of William's lackeys who you’ve seen before, and never wanted to see again if that matter could be helped.
His face is streaked with blood, tears, everything that yours has been. All the damage that he was used to kissing away now marked him. You didn’t want to look, but didn’t want to look away. His bruises, his pathetic attempts to push Mikey off him, his damaged confidence. It was all waning, it was all on the verge of something that you didn’t want to take anymore. He’s shouting something at you, but you’re no longer listening for legible words let alone trying to comprehend hysterical screaming
“Look Ryan. This is what happens when you don’t do exactly what I fucking tell you to do."
I hate myself so much. I can’t help him when he’s saved me from myself. When he’s held me through all the nights that hurt so much, through all the days that were nothing but a faux lie. Plants, notebooks, guitars, keyboards, notes. None of it ever fixed anything.
Get up.
Pick your wretched ass up off the floor.
Show him you can be strong even if it’s the last thing you are.
It’s a blur in your teary eyes, it’s shooting pains through your head and your body, but you stand up with a stumbling affection for death. There’s one thing about William that you love tonight, and it’s glinting at you like the stars never could.
You fall, you pretend that you didn’t. Brendon still hasn’t shut up, but your mind has stopped processing anything but the echoing slaps.
Fuck You.
I think you deserve everything you get.
You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but the second that the barrel is pointed to the back of William’s head, the moment you cock it, in slow motion Mikey lets go of Brendon and backs into the anticipating wall. Brendon nearly crawls into your arms, and you know that the only way this will be over, is if blood spills.
It won’t be your own ever again.
In a flash, in a second you become the martyr and Brendon becomes the suicide.
- Author: Breaking_vanity.
-Illustrations: losersawhore <3 she’s my lover.
- Pairing: Ryan/Pete. Ryan/Brendon. William Beckett. Mikey Way
- Rating: NC-17. Hardcore.
- Summary:
A Pretty boy with an ugly agenda.
A lover who kisses the tip of your nose.
- POV: Ryan’s
- Authors Note: this is the longest thing I’ve written and it also got quite emotional. Melissa (loserawhore) provided the beauty that is the drawing.
- Dedications: Losersawhore. <3 see. I love her.
- Disclaimer: no we don’t own the beauties.
Pretty boy with an ugly agenda. It’s a welcome change between drunk bastards and violent junkies, but it’s really not okay anyways. Undress yourself bathed in the gloating moonlight, in front of screaming car horns that give you migraines worse than a punch to the face. The boy’s acting like an attention seeking whore and it’s making you sick like the very sight of yourself in the windows. It wouldn’t incessantly bother you save for the fact that tonight you were fucking his. Bought and paid for. Waiting, watching the way he looks at you with a glint in his viciously addicting eyes and features. Shudder, and you want a drink more than you want to quench the desire to run, and risk everything from your life to Brendon’s.
I’ll Put my head down and feel the shame from the boy’s glare own my body. It seeps into the blood that possesses my veins, and I’ll let it leave it’s ugly mark on everything from these lips to this heart.
Why am I calling him a boy when he’s at least in his middle twenties. Why am I letting him touch the insides of my passionate tears. Why is my back still shyly leaning against the wall that provides enough comfort to make me want to rip my arteries out of these fucking bruised wrists.
Minutes pass like the nonstop movement of glistening bodies on the dance floor, the never ending songs, the time that passes you by with the body count of a train wreck. He takes you by the hand, and as much as you want to lean over the edges of the wall that surrounds and empty your lean stomach onto his shoes, it means a death wish you’re not quite sure you want. You bet that the likes of you look like a pretty couple walking down the street and he’s leaning into your slightly shorter frame like you‘re best friends.
What a fucking asshole..
It’s past midnight and the streets are still as busy as the city’s rich nightlife. But yet somehow, the brightly lit club names, the flickering streetlamps, the shadows of light in apartment windows; nothing ever compensates for the lack of visible stars. A little smirk is in order as it might as well be a metaphorical excuse for your life.
Every time, it’s like an unwritten and torturous rule for yourself. Never talk to them. No matter what, none of them will ever feel the sound of your voice. May it be a scream, or a moan, its not for their prying ears. He pushes you into a shitty motel that looks like it won’t be safe let alone clean.
‘Pete Wentz’. You hear the fuckers name and inwardly cringe at the expense of your well kept composure. He grins grabbing the room key from a crusty man that smells worse than an out of order bathroom.
“Hurry up.”
You want to kick yourself for following his orders, but bruises aren’t the ‘in’ thing anymore. It’s like the walk to death row each and every time, but you want to kick yourself for thinking that too, because this wasn’t killing you. Just wounding. And all wounds heal right? Because that’s what Brendon told you, and that’s what you’ve been living off the past few months. You push your hair back with one last little move of defiance and step into the door that he has so kindly opened for you. Deep eyes turn glazed and he has succeeded with pressing you into the bed in a worthless matter of seconds. Pete’s small and short, but with the body of a porn star, and that little bit was a downer for you because he was strong. Toss aside the situation, throw away your dignity, and enjoy this pretty boy fucking you when your boyfriend was across town writing songs about love. Turn it over to the camera, and smile this big fucking grin because a gorgeous blonde girl has just told you this wasn’t really your life, and the second you open your eyes will be the moment everything is perfect again.
Wishes. Roses. Half naked bodies. Your face is pressed into the pillow and he’s holding your hands above your head in a vice grip. You’re breathing hard and tasting salt where your tears had soaked the sheets. You hadn’t felt them fall. You hadn’t been the one to clench your teeth on the loud scream of pain that would have torn your throat to shreds. It wasn’t you that heard the bed creaking and it wasn’t you that was trying to ignore how rapid and desperate his gasps for air had become. How short his groans were getting,. How your whole lower back had turned numb from the pleasure that did nothing to get you off, and the hurt that did everything but straight out pour the salt into your wounds. One more gasp, one more blind thrust and you feel him collapse on you from the exertion.
Get off me
Right now.
But you refuse to talk. And he refuses to take that as it’s meant. Dish out a few well deserved red marks, a few blood stains that leave rusty spots on your shirts. Two swollen eyes and a limp that cripples the hearts of passerby’s, but yet no one has ever tried to stop you. No one had ever asked why your head was down, why you were shivering on a hot humid night, why there were angry bruises on your limp wrists. No one ever gave a fuck.
You wished you could blame them.
5 a.m. One tortured beauty. One more wound. One kiss from Brendon that would make everything a little better.
You love him for being up as long as it takes you to get home. A soft knock and he’s opening the door with a hug that makes you sob into his arms. Quietly you hear the door close, and you hear him sigh at the fact that this is what happens nearly every night. You cry, and he rubs your back, and strokes your hair, but it doesn’t take away the used and dirty feeling that showers your body. You wish you were kist coming back drunk from a night of partying, you wish that this was a temporary feeling that would wear off like drugs did. You even wish that he had caught you kissing an intoxicated girl.
But it’s not like that. It’s the tragic story that one ever falls for.
Straight edge is like a death wish.
His hair falls into your face and you try to blow it off, but end up with a loud snort/sob and he cracks a little smile that makes you giggle.
“I promise Ryan, it won’t always be like this…”.
You fall onto his bed together in the form of a small lump, and the concern that washes over his face, and the soft way he kisses you on the tip of your nose is the sun that fights it’s way through the polluted sky. Every day, it battles through the darkness even if it's not to shine as bright as it did a year ago.
Dreams are the only way to live sometimes.
“GET THE FUCK UP.”
You sit up straight alarmed at how angry William sounds and now are even more scared of the fact that he is standing right in front of your bed with an infuriated look painting his stunning facade.
What a fucking way to wake up and feel the coldness that comes with fear laying down stones in the pit of your stomach. You shake a curtain of sweaty and messy hair in front of your face in the attempts to disappear. It never seemed to quite work out that way.
He’s waiting, and you search you mind as fast as possible for an answer to his growing impatience and fury.
“what…William.” Your sound as small as you feel right now with hands that are shaking like you’ve lost all control.
I have
“Did I not Fucking tell you that I wanted to see you today exactly at 2pm. Did I not tell you that you were going to be on time or something bad would happen to someone you happened to care about very, very much?”
He’s smirking now, but his eyes are still the fire that you wouldn’t come within the distance of 20 ft. You feel the force of gravity combined with the shock that invades your heart with the last words that decorate his sentence. Faded. Terrified. You fight the urge to faint, fight the urge to attack him with all the insults, with all the strength you can muster.
“Where is he?” you pull away as soon as the brave words leave your quivering lips.
A wish to regret, William’s fingers curl around your chin in a way that makes you cry out from the sudden surge of pain. One more subconscious attempt to pull away and you’re on the floor trying to stop the blood that your nose is gushing, trying to escape the promise of another broken bone. Because for the stick thin beauty that he is, you’re smaller, weaker, and not worth a damn.
“Stay down there.”
He leaves the room with a small flair, and you crawl until your head finds a comfortable place to rest.
I wont close my eyes
Never give up. Yesterday hurts your memories, but today couldn’t have been worse if you’d tried. You still don’t remember ever promising William that, you still haven’t looked at the clock, or Brendon’s cellphone, or the dimming sun outside. Floating away, and you’re tattooed with a return address.
You hear struggling and feebly lift your head as William struts in giving you a dirty glance that reads absolutely no mercy. A small crack that begins at the edges of your heart and ends with a nuclear explosion overcomes the pain, the embarrassment, the fear as soon as you see Brendon being dragged in by one of William's lackeys who you’ve seen before, and never wanted to see again if that matter could be helped.
His face is streaked with blood, tears, everything that yours has been. All the damage that he was used to kissing away now marked him. You didn’t want to look, but didn’t want to look away. His bruises, his pathetic attempts to push Mikey off him, his damaged confidence. It was all waning, it was all on the verge of something that you didn’t want to take anymore. He’s shouting something at you, but you’re no longer listening for legible words let alone trying to comprehend hysterical screaming
“Look Ryan. This is what happens when you don’t do exactly what I fucking tell you to do."
I hate myself so much. I can’t help him when he’s saved me from myself. When he’s held me through all the nights that hurt so much, through all the days that were nothing but a faux lie. Plants, notebooks, guitars, keyboards, notes. None of it ever fixed anything.
Get up.
Pick your wretched ass up off the floor.
Show him you can be strong even if it’s the last thing you are.
It’s a blur in your teary eyes, it’s shooting pains through your head and your body, but you stand up with a stumbling affection for death. There’s one thing about William that you love tonight, and it’s glinting at you like the stars never could.
You fall, you pretend that you didn’t. Brendon still hasn’t shut up, but your mind has stopped processing anything but the echoing slaps.
Fuck You.
I think you deserve everything you get.
You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but the second that the barrel is pointed to the back of William’s head, the moment you cock it, in slow motion Mikey lets go of Brendon and backs into the anticipating wall. Brendon nearly crawls into your arms, and you know that the only way this will be over, is if blood spills.
It won’t be your own ever again.
In a flash, in a second you become the martyr and Brendon becomes the suicide.