(no subject)
Title: "Bar Fight" 1/1
Word Count: 5988
Pairing : Bam/Ryan and Ryan/OC(female)
Rating: Hard R for language and extreme Cliché.
Summary: Cliché classic genderbending of Ryan Dunn, which could just be said of me just wanting to decribe her killer rack.
The bar scene was buzzing with voices, giggles, cheesy pick-up lines, clanging of water stained glasses, the corner T.V. of ignored headlines, and the blared out music. It was a alcoholics nirvana. The bar was lit in dimming, flickering reddish lights, singing in a calling of warm drinks in an equally lit atmosphere. The stools creaked in protest in shifting body weights that nursed heavy through parched lips of golden drink, only to giggle or chuckle in brief pausing of watering. The wooden walling and flooring were coated in various colored liquid, yellow to pinks, to whites and blacks, forming an ill looking rainbow of paints of sin. People were equally painted but with flushed cheeks, tangled hair that hands had run through one to many times, and tinted red from being currently courted by the opposite or even the same sex. The various photographs that had course dust and a less than appealing scent that floated thickly from the corner nook titled the bathrooms. Overflowing the counter was coasters and strong drinks, carbonates seeping to the top rippling nectar, rippling from the beats of dimming music and footfalls whether to the rhythm or of a course to find a seat. Ryan was happily taking in her common nightlife after filming environment.
She rocked herself back and forth as the drink sloshed in her stomach like an angry sea. She watched in little interest as her co-stars, her friends through moronic filming activities of their daily lives paraded around. Johnny was dancing on legs that swayed much like the tress seen through a spider web-scared windows, around the pool table he went with a tooth pick like lance. Bam was circling the table jeering at him, resting his drink against the lip of the table. She had to keep her ears open for when her best friend hit boredom he would direst some slurred comment her way. She would just nod to humor him. She kept an eye on Bam the most. Pontus was flagging around his barely hidden pride and his mock dance like that of a patriotic warrior. Wee-man and Preston sat to her right nursing their drinks through giggles and bickering, the stool under the latter of the two cried in protest more loudly than its wooden brethren. The most amusing characters underneath the buzzing, redneck porch sounding lights were that of the self proclaimed “Lady hunters.” Hindering like snakes on a forest floor, the tables and chairs of the bar were mere leaves of camouflage of their wife beaters, denim clad bodies, Steve-O and Novak stalking their prey with the stealth of horns tied to the bottom of their one shoed foot. The flooring boards bounced under their footfalls and cat calls directed all around the room, Ryan could only sit back and place the rim of her glass to her chapped lips, her savior.
Novak’s head was hung a tad low from his no shame no game walk and talk. The reason was due to the Novak look out time of five minutes of entering the bar and sealing the deal had passed. Steve-O on the other hand was not ready to give in just yet but was following Novak lead to Bam’s position, who was waiting for Johnny to hold his drink down long enough to play. Her gaze turned from the rapidly approaching, down hearted and sexual promise less Novak and giddy on the heels Steve-O to her left, for a slice of counter not sporting a glass. Pushing herself off the stool, with a bit of stumbling, leaving her empty glass of the slice of open bar. She made her way to the boys at the pool table. Walking she found out was harder than she thought. Her feet were heavy like clad in steel boots, her breasts rested stickily to her torso flesh under her black, logo-stamped shirt, her pants rose deep into her crouch and around her ankles, and her hair danced around her like a cotton cape. May be she should have stayed sitting, she hazily pondered. Pushing past the bodies and avoiding slipping of liquid stained wooden panels, Ryan took a stance near the middle of a conversing Bam, Novak, and giggling, stale smelling Steve-O.
“Right, there, see her? See has been given of the eye all night, I say you go over there and seal the deal. She is begging for it. Now go over there do what you need to do, and if you need the car just get the keys from me.” Bam was placing a calloused hand of the cheap cotton fabric of Novak’s shirt, both sets of eyes on a girl at the bar openly staring the two. Her jewelry was tight of her sickly wrists, her clothing was far to short and tight, her heels spilled out ill kept toes, and her hair was in need of her next crimson red dye job, and an apparent body of “begging for it.” Ryan scoffed. Novak with a new bounce in game turned, with one Steve-O less, his side comment of having to take care of something, heading toward the damp nook of the urinals. Novak grinned, nodding, slicking up his hair with the oils of his hands and rock his hips forward, to where the now fully turned around drunken fast company sat. Ryan could only stare until her eyes watered slightly for the Novak courtship swagger was painfully cheap.
“Real Casanova isn’t he?” Ryan tilted her head over her shoulder to where see met cobalt blue eyes shining with mirth or just a tad of alcohol. Bam was standing a full height from flare to eyeliner the watering down of beer seemed to take no effect on his appearance. Ryan was a little bit envious that flashed with the breezing heat for she knew she looked haggard. Ryan regards her best friend with a grin and a nod before regarding Novak again. The man of her childhood was working is magic. He blocked her view of his fast prey with his leaning against the bar counter but she knew by the giggling from the corner Novak was going to get something, if anything.
“Wanna another drink?” Bam questioned in a slur, pressing the rim of the exterior dirt glass to his equally glossy, overhead light catching lips. Ryan watched his throat move to the motion of his swallows. She watched as the glass parted from his lips with a smack, the froth smudging his upper lip. She politely declined though she was never one to turn down booze her sobriety was in an upward need. Bam rested his drink back to his mock coaster of the pool table lip, never turning instead extending his arm back in a sloppy, unsteady motion. Ryan tilted her head until her chin nuzzled her shoulder socket shirt fabric to look out for a barmaid, thankfully none were in sight. Their bounteous giggles of refills in an outline of the far side of the wall. Ryan was happy to momentarily stop Bam’s drinking like a fish.
She grinned and turned her body to face Bam, who she now realized was far to close to her curves. Her grin faded like globs of glue off her chin to her chest to her filching, rocking of her heels legs to the floor, to mingle with the other stains. She hated this Bam. This Bam, was a drunken Bam, a Bam she had little to no control over, where his words spilled like the beer that was drowned down moments ago. Bam’s eyes were in a haze, his teeth sparkling white pearls in a smug grin and his body language that of a hopeless seductive drunk, definitely the worse Bam.
He gave a short borderline chuckle that up lifted to a hiccup at the end as he used Ryan’s shoulder as a vertical pole to support his weight. The fabric around the fingernail clawed gripped Bam tightened uncomfortably but she was used to it. It was like a bad case of the flu or head splinting headache, you knew how to cure it but it didn’t ease the pain. Willing her legs stable, pushing back to twist in her jeans around her groin, Ryan gave an internally heavy drawn-out sigh before getting really for the same conversation that came with every drunk, mildly horny or man in charge Bam. Both of them were promised a might-have-been’s fairytale relationship. Back then she was a young girl fighting for a new identity. Back them he was a boy who was going to be the one of the million to make it, to be someone in his field of passion. They were meant to have a house with the fence, the parents of the patter of shoeless chubby feet against flooring, and ever loving couple of never dying libidos. That was to be Brandon and Ryan, Bam and his Random Heroine, the future Margera couple, the couple who did live happily ever after. That was until Ryan had to fuck it up, Bam ranted in one violent drunken rage in which not even Ryan could calm him. She could only apologize to those heartbroken sixteen-year-old eyes that haunted the back her memories in these situations. She only had the apologies and might-have-been’s in these musky, ill lit, boozed up, and sexually worked up scenes. The apologies and the might-have-been’s were her only lifelines.
“All he has to do is spread those pussy shit pickup lines and they spread ‘m like a piss break,” he said slurring in-between yet laughing half-heartily after his fragmenting of his words. Back to Novak, Ryan noted, which lead to relations, which lead to . . . Ryan cringed. “ Got no car, house, money or his own fucking cloths and gets them, probably by name dropping me.” Yet again no hostility but Ryan could pick up on the want of affection Bam secretly, no openly adored, and a drunk Bam was worse. Worse than an affectionate, brew smelling Bam was that he commonly in this state did two things out of habit, one which was only when in Ryan presence. Ryan would approach Bam in crowds to be humiliated by him pillowing his cheek against her chest, and the other thing a drunk Bam did? Biting. Soon Ryan found her breasts cradling a human head that nuzzled twin flushed hued cheeks against her cheap fabric shirt. Bam was leaning waterily on her, light yet the ripples of harsh, scratchy breathing took note of his presence.
“Ry?” Bam questioned, as if that fact that his was resting between her two flesh mounds didn’t sate her nearness to his being. Ryan’s eyes shifted across the room before regarding Bam, a half-asleep Johnny, leading against his pole, Pontus talking with a newly reappeared Steve-O in another musky corner, Preston and Wee-man still laughing and Novak still a smutty romance magician. She found it safe to respond to the hanging calling, a hm and nothing more. “ We’re all going to this club after shooting, there’s this band. I’m thinking about signing them in the company.” Ryan knew this was nothing more than a plea, which she would be abandoned at an equally crappy bar table while a newly sober Bam would be gushing over the European talent.
“I can’t,” she started slowly. She wasn’t that prideful to admit that she was scared. While a sober Bam copped a fit of slightly clamorous shots and hand gestures, a drunk Bam could bite, punch and puppy dog whimper to get what he wanted, and sometimes not in that order. “ I have plans . . . with Rachel. We’re both going to some lame paint store, she wants to add to the bedroom with more “color,” whatever the fuck that means.” She ended with a joke played off her own gender, of her not being womanly in tuned. Bam didn’t catch the joke. Ryan panicked and tensed as Bam’s back went ridged, his fists locked in tight grasps that could break his paper thin flesh, all that the name that glided over Ryan’s lips. The name that alined and curved in a sort of affection to it. It was a name of a person not apart of the CKY crew, not the Jackass team, not in the camera/technological shit party, or a family member of odd natural habits and behaviors, or even a lyrical appeasing rock star. No a stranger’s name it was. The background sound of the people, the blurs of colorful passing people and the dimming roasting lights and the light coos of the breeze outside were deaf to Ryan’s painfully alert ears. Her chest gave a painful squeeze even as the weight of Bam’s head lifted from her breastplate. The lingering smell of the suds of the washed out shampoo of Bam’s morning shower was her only smell. The twisted curls of disgusted lips that gleamed with beer or saliva were her eye’s rapture. Bam was at full height. His outline of form sent the rest behind in a background of watercolor vision to Ryan. She didn’t flutter foot to foot anymore but held her ground, if Bam saw fear he would feed off it for his amusement. But fuck she was terrified.
“Her, her, what does she want? Christ Ry, you don’t even hang out with us anymore! She is taking all your time, all the time you spent with us, it’s gone! Its all fucking gone! You don’t drink with us, you don’t want to go to skate demos, hell, Ryan you blow off shit to go see her fucking parents!” Ryan’s heart shouted in outrage, her lip pulled back in a curl but she never spoke. Bam’s frame heightened much like the snakes he fear so, his eye aflame with a passion of betrayal. He chest was out, his clothes tightened in the right places to make a fan swoon in a hand-clasped sigh. Bam made himself in emphasis of attention, what he always wanted. He made her notice him and only him but unfortunately, as always it won’t last much like his anger drunk buzz.
Bam wobbled to her side but the wobbling was just as intimating as his current persona. He was close to her side. His exhales hitting her cheek and the rise of his chest encasing her arm and brushing her breast. Ryan payed no mind, only her eyes focused little to the enraged face, the hues of his cheekbones, and the taunt veins in his neck. She could feel the oxygen of her last gasp of air choking her, like a final breath until diving into the unknown, sun forgotten depths of the sea. Her eyes swallowed her face, her lips slightly parted and her world in front of her in a blur, the only of the figure to her side. She was dying. She concluded.
“She can’t do for you what I can. It’s not natural, not normal, she can’t give you normal. I could, we could be what we were meant to be. Fuck, we could be the next Phil and Ape, but I let myself go. Please, Ry, please.” His warm pants tickled the shell of Ryan’s ear. His last statement flicked his tongue in a plea that it came dangerously close to her lobe. The highlights of the lights cupped his face down to the flash of flesh before being cut of viewing by his shirt. The warmth gave him innocence though the words that flowed through his mouth weren’t. Ryan’s heart caved in from the “not natural” part of Bam’s aliment of words of hate, of desperation. She knew Bam was lying. He wasn’t homophobic but an affectionate Bam was on the prowl. He was hungry, hungry for the prey that was promised to him, the only reason she thought to be his pursuit of her. Ryan could feel a choking sense of lies from her own mentality.
“Bam . . .” That was all she said. That all she had say with that tone. She pleaded in rebuttal, a plea for him to stop. He was breaking her, and he knew it.
Bam pulled away as if burn, invisible third-degree burns scorching his skin to a light sizzle that could only be felt by Bam. He pulled back his weight to the heel of his black and white, slightly scoffed Audio shoes, the floor crying out in a watery squeak in rebuttal. Bam’s lower back gave a dull thud at him hitting the cheap pine of the pool table, the balls goggling from their green carpeted rest briefly before resettling. His face in an expression that made her heart twisted more than one to many times. Like a faded memory of a tatty old flick his face, his facial pullback was in a lock. A musty scent of old washed over her in remembrance of when she came face to face with that look, it was like a closed fist punch to the gut. She could feel that lingering sense of being punched several years back never left her. That feeling had rested its knuckles against her naval flesh to wait, and when upon the timing to pull back and strike again, until she was breathless and their knuckles bleeding.
“How could you betray me, you always betray me, you . . .” Bam sputtered off at the end, the word bitch was left to hang in the air. Ryan wasn’t offended, she had no room to be. “For Jesse at first when I wanted to be your best friend, when I met you first, when you didn’t know anyone at school. For Knoxville, when I was your best friend after I won on Jesse I have to deal with this shit again. You go to his side after he comes back, ruin my fucking Hummer, and shit. For your random bitches, for a random shitty cunt, when we were young it was to be me. Me, damn you asshole, me! I hadn’t had a chance, not you fucking chance to prove myself, I could have but you couldn’t fucking wait for me! You ran from me to some whore, I was too fucking young to understand but knew you had screwed over my future. Fuck you, fuck you!” He screamed until hoarse. His pitch in volume was so coarse that she thought his vocal cords may be ripped and caused his face to a hue with internal bleeding. She felt prying eyes but when she looked around no one was looking in their direction. All still drinking, all still borderline comatose drunk, all still sitting with useless chatter, all laughing and looking for sexual encounters for the sheets at home, all involved with themselves, all couldn’t hear them under the lights and the glasses. She was thankful.
She could only stare, that was all she could do. Her staring unnerved Bam, and it was apparent, his swaying and harshened breathing dead give ways. Streaks of lights in his background reminded her of the footage from “Haggard,” and the same sorrowful, dysfunctional relationships of the movie. The lights soaking his pale skin tone bathing him in golden orange, his shirt loosening and tightening with his chest’s movements, his shoes knocking against the leg of the pool table and his face in waiting impatiently. She gave him a flat look of dead eyes. She had to be dead not to melt into him. He had the same thought. Bam stood there pondering. How could she be doing this to him? What does her cunt of the month have instead of him? He could give her things she can’t. He pondered, he wondered, he begged for the knowledge not knowing that he milled over the same questions every time he got to that degree of drunk, and every time she was around at that degree.
It was an overload for Bam’s buzzed brain.. His mind was soaked like a sponge, filled to the scalp with alcohol. Propelling his body in a forceful push off Bam took to his feet in a movement of a newborn mammal. His arms went out to steady him, his only pole of balance. His head was lower in a vomiting hanging position giving Ryan a full view of his locks, of the scar of his flip into Evil Jared’s shitty “lake.” Bam still in a swaying of sea legs couldn’t steady himself and fell forward into waiting arms. Bam breathed heavily, his cheek in blush hue resting against a calm exhaling and inhaling chest that smelled of sweat, stale bodily earth and a hint of cleaning fabric. He closed his eyes in a burning wake of restlessness or the burning of premature tears in brimming corners of eyes. Ryan didn’t even look down into the body warp in her links of fairly thin yet unfeminine toned arms of pores leaking booze. Bam pushed off in unbalanced power, confused, hurt, betrayed, and drunk didn’t mix for him to equal out his power. His nails clung to her shirt clothing a second longer only to come out with his pull and pushing out with a harsh amount of strength. Ryan stumbled back on too thankfully greatly undamaged reflexed sneaker clad feet. Her body stayed in the position of being pushed, her stomach curved in, and her rest her body overhanging it, she gave Bam an awaiting look of his next rash action.
It didn’t take long. “I need to . . . I need to get out of here, I need to leave,” with that Bam encircled Ryan left side in a brush of stale air. Before heading to the flimsy wooden bar doors, Bam’s hands were encased in deep burying of his slink, velvet like shine paint’s pocket. Ryan’s eyes, though strained to the point her pupils, if possible hurt, locked of the wriggling fingers in those pockets. She stared as the fabric creased and emptied, churned like the seas, like her alcohol, fizzing stomach in a mixture of acids, Bam’s fingers locking in his pockets, Bam’s finger lacing in a clawing grip into her diaphragm, metaphorically. Her hearing was back to normal to the useless beer babble and bar scene atmosphere until she heard it. It was a jiggling, a snickering of metal. It was keys. Her heart locked and her feet edged forward in a minimum of invisible friction grasping the soles of her shoes at Bam’s semi-turned, downward gazing back as he found what he needed. Bam flicked his hair in a cheesy “Bay Watch,” or some blonde haired, blue-eyed stereotype was he refocused. He had his keys in trembling, intoxicated man’s palm. In a swirling shadow Ryan watched him go. A cape of rich royal purple fashion encircling him, his pants tightening and breathing out in creases of leather or some other shiny pant material, knowing Bam’s unconcern of cash in could be fucking gold, his shoes hitting like drums on floorboards in her eardrums, and his arms and hair moving to the pace he set, his keys dangling in limp fingers.
She choked. He was planning to drive. Ryan heaved her tried, boozed up body forward, past the limp noodle entrancing bodies of the worn out beats, past the uplifted arms in a cheer or nonverbal call on another fill to the rim frothy drink, past them all for Bam were nearing the shabby oak doors. He was escaping her reach. His body readying to be hit with warm midnight summer fresh, copper smelling air, to the vegetation of unkept proportions, to the gravel of skidding feet and the lingering foamy scent of vehicle purring and engine oil, out of her reach.
No. She caught him with the tips of her fingers felt like sandpaper against the slick fabric of Bam’s whispering jacket. Gripping his arm muscles in a controlling hold, Ryan’s chest pressed against his back to hold him in place. His body jerked under her touch but that wasn’t the focus her attention, it was his throat. Bam’s Adam’s apple bobbled much of that of a fishing rod’s bobble on the paper thin surface of water, of a stormy sea. “Bam, you can’t drive,” Ryan stated in a mock tone of Ape’s commanding like pleading of ill ideas of amusement of her son’s sadistic humor point-of-view. “Your drunk. You’re angry, I understand you don’t what to . . . Bam . . . Bam?” Ryan only had a view of Bam’s chin and cheekbones that were normally winter pale fresh but now, now a sea-green mist, his throat growing taunt in willing of pushing back whatever want to escape.
Bam’s body gradually caved inward, as some invisible force of gravity was directly placed in the core of his abdominal muscles. Ryan laced an arm around his curving lower back, her ashy, slightly dried out arm flesh raspy against the horribly expensive material. Her other arm rested against the quivering stomach. Bam slouched forward further that could be a direct cause and effect of him turning an odd shade of sickly green. He made shallow swallowing sounds of contracting throat muscles, protesting thickly from their enlarging push against his thin throat flesh. Ryan leaned inward as if she could successfully diagnose Bam’s illness though it was painfully apparent that he had a vomiting future. A hand clasped her abdominal encircled arm. Nails dug harshly into her skin in a panic of knowing what was going to happen but not what to do about it. Ryan focused off the crescent moon scaring on her hued skin but more to the pale knuckles and shaking frame of her best friend. His skin shook in trembles off his form and he hunched further into himself but Ryan didn’t take immediate aid of her friend without order.
With ashy lips he spoke, drool heavily spilling in the corners of his mouth in a prelude to tragedy. Eyes that quivered much like the rest of his body, in dilating, iris clouding from sickness, Bam’s eyes locked on her own. She closed so near that they shared the same stale air, the same personal space and the same distress but she listened to the ill air flowing from those to be worshiped lips.
“ Ryan, I think . . . I . . . oh god . . . I-am-gonna-be-sick.”
Ryan took control. She was one to adapt to any situation, the level-headed sense of thought of questioning or speaking out against what seemed to be a golden chuckle worthy idea to others. Basically she was the smartest dumb ass out of a group of jackasses. Ryan gripped the hem of Bam’s pants to gain a grasp of aiding her suddenly taut, popping and locking arms to carry the majority of Bam’s weight. She tossed the noodle limp arm of Bam’s across her buckled down shoulders, his wrist limp on her arm socket but fingers sickly gripping the fibers of her cloth. The grip didn’t last long as Ryan raised her hand to grip the limp one, the grip was soft but strong. The grasp reminded Ryan of the whole hand grasp of her nephew to her sole index finger. It was heartbreakingly reality of weakness, which was how she would but if she was a fucking poet. With a lean-to in place of his best friend, his female partner in crime and a source of steady hold on for a ready start, the two focused in on the destination needed. Shuffling at a pace that would be a mildly sober person would say slow but to a drunk a jack rabbit sprit, Ryan and Bam were a sight to be seen. Bam’s toes were turned was that they hit the oncoming ridges of wooden panels, his shoe bottom completely off the floor. Bam’s head fixed in a limp mock vomiting stance, his hair in a curtain of satin black that were swinging off the play of gravity. His stomach was caved in with a punched style and his clothing seemed to fix him a little less but the sick tint never left his skin, and the choking bubble in his throat never stop bobbing of release.
Ryan was commonly shifting her gaze to studying Bam back to the piss-ridden nook of the corner. Ryan just making out the hanging signs of gender on the equally stained doors of the floors and the corner tops. She was buckling under the extra weight of another body but she made head way, commonly making reassuring small talk to the unresponsive Bam. Her profile was equally haggard in drapery hair of blonde, her skin a tint of dawn hue, and her pants getting hit with a steady dip of Bam’s prelude to sickness drool. They were a matched pair of bar profiles. Dodging the tables, which were clipped and sent to jiggle on their coasters, past the slurring bodies of solid gel with there flow that one would think liquid made up 90% of their body, and past the bar’s decor, old photographs of past thin forms smiling and shaking hands and the audio speakers of busted bass. Ryan pulled them into the deciding turn where Bam was to . . . relieve himself.
She stopped in the barely personal worthy nook that was a fork of female or male needs. Out of basic instinct her left foot pivoted to the direction where a pair of circled ended rectangles, a big show of obesity skirt, and circular head on nonexistent shoulders but the slight nudge died half way. Her toes curled and her stomach dropped in a pulling to match the disgusted frown she wore so beautifully like her loose leave clothing. Moaning, it hit her ear in a muffle calling from the door’s closed off barrier, filtering only the highest pitches through. Growling she shifted her weight and Bam’s to the opposite dividing point where an equally pictured sign of gender. Muttering about how bathrooms were for pissing not for railing was sulking on dark, low hanging around her. She used her foot in a quick kick to open the door with a thunder clap bang. Her kicking action caused Bam to moan, shaking, and slushing his sickness in a blender of bodily organ casing. She gave a quick glaze at her companion knowing that their time was running out. Quicken pace of the two sets of feet, only one truly working the new flooring nearly caused Ryan to tripped over her own feet. Cursing she looked down, quickly disgusted by the sight. Urine littered the ground, staining the tile grout, the small tiles were mismatched like children’s coloring, the sinks had rusted stains and leaked soft beads of droplets of brown tinted water, the urinals and the door less or broken off the hinges of the stalls were painted and mark with “been here,” and various “Fuck,” “Sucks,” and “Cunts,” with odd vomit color tones. She was nearly sent sprawling to the filth ridden flooring has Bam left her side and in a flash of black and purple ran to the nearest stall.
She watched him gripped in yellow toilet lip, his knees hitting dirty brown tiles, and his head bent to project his sick with less that accurate aim. She took in the seen objectively, as objectively she could while standing in a rotten corpse wafting smell hitting her nostril’s tiny hair’s in tickling illness. She walked to his side. She crouched to his level gaining what little room in the flimsy walls and scanning with dispassionate eyes of that of watching licking flames of the phrases that made a mother blush. Her knees popped and her elbows rested oddly on her knees has her gaze flickered in the equally displeasing sight of Bam’s stomach contents and the sides of the toilet of white and brown tones. Raising her head, she was met to see Bam who was staring at her, his head resting of a tilt to meet her. His mouth of slightly opened, his lips plump with acid abuse and his body profile totally in the pitiful position of still gripping the toilet lip as if a lifeline. He moaned in inner pain before swaying of his shaking knees, unsettled on the ridge of the flooring.
He began to fall to his side where only met him was diseased walls. He never met the wall as Ryan once again embraced him in a hold of a mother to an infant just left her once swollen womb. Resting his head close to her in a position that had placed just for Bam in seemed, she cradled him had he moan and mumbled in slurs that were incoherent. Their skins melded in a sticky, tape like meeting, their clothing of rich gothic buttoned clothing to cheap 99% percent cotton, to lower class jean material and the expensive black tight, only to cut of the meeting at the knees has their legs bent to support their body weight. Pillowed on her chest, he nuzzled in her chest blindly. Ryan didn’t know if were out of a pervert manly instinct or for sickly comfort all sought out for. For children sought comfort from their mother’s medicine know-how or their father’s rough, course patting head worthy hands or even a person with the mere title M.D. or Doctor at the begging of their name. She didn’t care. She never did in these meetings, she would hold on, she would be that comfort, if only for the while. She would be April, the mother the home’s doctor. She would be Phil, that fatherly shadow at the doorway watching their children from afar. She would be her their shared peers, Novak, Dico, Rake, they all for the manly moral support. She would even be Missy, the arms of comfort around his torso, the lips of his sore ones, and even the body to shoulder to lean on. She would never be them when he was sober, never the comfort that came with Missy that a man and woman shared through sex, that meeting of messy liquids and various holes.
She sat there, on that dirty flooring, staring blankly off into the forest of wisps of slightly curled hair. She found that she could stay here forever, past the smell, the horrid landscape, and past the people out no doubt not even taking note of their absence. She could wait and hope that she was normal, to give Bam what was promise to him in a way. She could hold him in her arms, encased in folds of flesh in a platonic hold in her point-of-view. She could stay dispassionate to the world, let the time pass to decades and yet her wealthier away like the stone. She just wanted Bam to know that she had equal trouble letting him go. She was trying hard to do what was right, too not lead Bam on, to take what Missy truly wanted. Ryan only wanted to make Bam, no, herself with her guilt feel better. Burying her nose to inhale the deep smell of shampoo, and to listen to Bam’s soft gurgling snores as his body shut down from his body fatigue. She held him there, surrounded by a reality that she pleaded to for a pausing, for a rewind at life. Back to the chubby cheeked youth, the baby fat laced arms and legs, and the short of weathered down life they currently were, she wanted a second chance. No, not a second chance she wanted a change, for she couldn’t relive that heart breaking cobalt blues when she confessed. Her apologies and might-have-been’s were all she had in this playing field just back then as well. Tightening her hold, causing Bam to shuffle in her grip but settle back down. She spoke. She spoke in the layers of satin black, to the stale unresponsive air, the leaking sinks, the pooled up vomit, the mock notepaper stall walls, to anyone not there.
“ I been trying hard to do what’s right, to show how much I love you by letting you go. But I could stay here all night.”
Sorry for degrading you Dunn, and viewers of my poor writing skills. I want to do more of female!Dunn in real situations of the Real Male Dunn's life, but I want to which are to be desired. Comments are free crack for the soul. Hope you enjoyed - Courtneynus
Word Count: 5988
Pairing : Bam/Ryan and Ryan/OC(female)
Rating: Hard R for language and extreme Cliché.
Summary: Cliché classic genderbending of Ryan Dunn, which could just be said of me just wanting to decribe her killer rack.
The bar scene was buzzing with voices, giggles, cheesy pick-up lines, clanging of water stained glasses, the corner T.V. of ignored headlines, and the blared out music. It was a alcoholics nirvana. The bar was lit in dimming, flickering reddish lights, singing in a calling of warm drinks in an equally lit atmosphere. The stools creaked in protest in shifting body weights that nursed heavy through parched lips of golden drink, only to giggle or chuckle in brief pausing of watering. The wooden walling and flooring were coated in various colored liquid, yellow to pinks, to whites and blacks, forming an ill looking rainbow of paints of sin. People were equally painted but with flushed cheeks, tangled hair that hands had run through one to many times, and tinted red from being currently courted by the opposite or even the same sex. The various photographs that had course dust and a less than appealing scent that floated thickly from the corner nook titled the bathrooms. Overflowing the counter was coasters and strong drinks, carbonates seeping to the top rippling nectar, rippling from the beats of dimming music and footfalls whether to the rhythm or of a course to find a seat. Ryan was happily taking in her common nightlife after filming environment.
She rocked herself back and forth as the drink sloshed in her stomach like an angry sea. She watched in little interest as her co-stars, her friends through moronic filming activities of their daily lives paraded around. Johnny was dancing on legs that swayed much like the tress seen through a spider web-scared windows, around the pool table he went with a tooth pick like lance. Bam was circling the table jeering at him, resting his drink against the lip of the table. She had to keep her ears open for when her best friend hit boredom he would direst some slurred comment her way. She would just nod to humor him. She kept an eye on Bam the most. Pontus was flagging around his barely hidden pride and his mock dance like that of a patriotic warrior. Wee-man and Preston sat to her right nursing their drinks through giggles and bickering, the stool under the latter of the two cried in protest more loudly than its wooden brethren. The most amusing characters underneath the buzzing, redneck porch sounding lights were that of the self proclaimed “Lady hunters.” Hindering like snakes on a forest floor, the tables and chairs of the bar were mere leaves of camouflage of their wife beaters, denim clad bodies, Steve-O and Novak stalking their prey with the stealth of horns tied to the bottom of their one shoed foot. The flooring boards bounced under their footfalls and cat calls directed all around the room, Ryan could only sit back and place the rim of her glass to her chapped lips, her savior.
Novak’s head was hung a tad low from his no shame no game walk and talk. The reason was due to the Novak look out time of five minutes of entering the bar and sealing the deal had passed. Steve-O on the other hand was not ready to give in just yet but was following Novak lead to Bam’s position, who was waiting for Johnny to hold his drink down long enough to play. Her gaze turned from the rapidly approaching, down hearted and sexual promise less Novak and giddy on the heels Steve-O to her left, for a slice of counter not sporting a glass. Pushing herself off the stool, with a bit of stumbling, leaving her empty glass of the slice of open bar. She made her way to the boys at the pool table. Walking she found out was harder than she thought. Her feet were heavy like clad in steel boots, her breasts rested stickily to her torso flesh under her black, logo-stamped shirt, her pants rose deep into her crouch and around her ankles, and her hair danced around her like a cotton cape. May be she should have stayed sitting, she hazily pondered. Pushing past the bodies and avoiding slipping of liquid stained wooden panels, Ryan took a stance near the middle of a conversing Bam, Novak, and giggling, stale smelling Steve-O.
“Right, there, see her? See has been given of the eye all night, I say you go over there and seal the deal. She is begging for it. Now go over there do what you need to do, and if you need the car just get the keys from me.” Bam was placing a calloused hand of the cheap cotton fabric of Novak’s shirt, both sets of eyes on a girl at the bar openly staring the two. Her jewelry was tight of her sickly wrists, her clothing was far to short and tight, her heels spilled out ill kept toes, and her hair was in need of her next crimson red dye job, and an apparent body of “begging for it.” Ryan scoffed. Novak with a new bounce in game turned, with one Steve-O less, his side comment of having to take care of something, heading toward the damp nook of the urinals. Novak grinned, nodding, slicking up his hair with the oils of his hands and rock his hips forward, to where the now fully turned around drunken fast company sat. Ryan could only stare until her eyes watered slightly for the Novak courtship swagger was painfully cheap.
“Real Casanova isn’t he?” Ryan tilted her head over her shoulder to where see met cobalt blue eyes shining with mirth or just a tad of alcohol. Bam was standing a full height from flare to eyeliner the watering down of beer seemed to take no effect on his appearance. Ryan was a little bit envious that flashed with the breezing heat for she knew she looked haggard. Ryan regards her best friend with a grin and a nod before regarding Novak again. The man of her childhood was working is magic. He blocked her view of his fast prey with his leaning against the bar counter but she knew by the giggling from the corner Novak was going to get something, if anything.
“Wanna another drink?” Bam questioned in a slur, pressing the rim of the exterior dirt glass to his equally glossy, overhead light catching lips. Ryan watched his throat move to the motion of his swallows. She watched as the glass parted from his lips with a smack, the froth smudging his upper lip. She politely declined though she was never one to turn down booze her sobriety was in an upward need. Bam rested his drink back to his mock coaster of the pool table lip, never turning instead extending his arm back in a sloppy, unsteady motion. Ryan tilted her head until her chin nuzzled her shoulder socket shirt fabric to look out for a barmaid, thankfully none were in sight. Their bounteous giggles of refills in an outline of the far side of the wall. Ryan was happy to momentarily stop Bam’s drinking like a fish.
She grinned and turned her body to face Bam, who she now realized was far to close to her curves. Her grin faded like globs of glue off her chin to her chest to her filching, rocking of her heels legs to the floor, to mingle with the other stains. She hated this Bam. This Bam, was a drunken Bam, a Bam she had little to no control over, where his words spilled like the beer that was drowned down moments ago. Bam’s eyes were in a haze, his teeth sparkling white pearls in a smug grin and his body language that of a hopeless seductive drunk, definitely the worse Bam.
He gave a short borderline chuckle that up lifted to a hiccup at the end as he used Ryan’s shoulder as a vertical pole to support his weight. The fabric around the fingernail clawed gripped Bam tightened uncomfortably but she was used to it. It was like a bad case of the flu or head splinting headache, you knew how to cure it but it didn’t ease the pain. Willing her legs stable, pushing back to twist in her jeans around her groin, Ryan gave an internally heavy drawn-out sigh before getting really for the same conversation that came with every drunk, mildly horny or man in charge Bam. Both of them were promised a might-have-been’s fairytale relationship. Back then she was a young girl fighting for a new identity. Back them he was a boy who was going to be the one of the million to make it, to be someone in his field of passion. They were meant to have a house with the fence, the parents of the patter of shoeless chubby feet against flooring, and ever loving couple of never dying libidos. That was to be Brandon and Ryan, Bam and his Random Heroine, the future Margera couple, the couple who did live happily ever after. That was until Ryan had to fuck it up, Bam ranted in one violent drunken rage in which not even Ryan could calm him. She could only apologize to those heartbroken sixteen-year-old eyes that haunted the back her memories in these situations. She only had the apologies and might-have-been’s in these musky, ill lit, boozed up, and sexually worked up scenes. The apologies and the might-have-been’s were her only lifelines.
“All he has to do is spread those pussy shit pickup lines and they spread ‘m like a piss break,” he said slurring in-between yet laughing half-heartily after his fragmenting of his words. Back to Novak, Ryan noted, which lead to relations, which lead to . . . Ryan cringed. “ Got no car, house, money or his own fucking cloths and gets them, probably by name dropping me.” Yet again no hostility but Ryan could pick up on the want of affection Bam secretly, no openly adored, and a drunk Bam was worse. Worse than an affectionate, brew smelling Bam was that he commonly in this state did two things out of habit, one which was only when in Ryan presence. Ryan would approach Bam in crowds to be humiliated by him pillowing his cheek against her chest, and the other thing a drunk Bam did? Biting. Soon Ryan found her breasts cradling a human head that nuzzled twin flushed hued cheeks against her cheap fabric shirt. Bam was leaning waterily on her, light yet the ripples of harsh, scratchy breathing took note of his presence.
“Ry?” Bam questioned, as if that fact that his was resting between her two flesh mounds didn’t sate her nearness to his being. Ryan’s eyes shifted across the room before regarding Bam, a half-asleep Johnny, leading against his pole, Pontus talking with a newly reappeared Steve-O in another musky corner, Preston and Wee-man still laughing and Novak still a smutty romance magician. She found it safe to respond to the hanging calling, a hm and nothing more. “ We’re all going to this club after shooting, there’s this band. I’m thinking about signing them in the company.” Ryan knew this was nothing more than a plea, which she would be abandoned at an equally crappy bar table while a newly sober Bam would be gushing over the European talent.
“I can’t,” she started slowly. She wasn’t that prideful to admit that she was scared. While a sober Bam copped a fit of slightly clamorous shots and hand gestures, a drunk Bam could bite, punch and puppy dog whimper to get what he wanted, and sometimes not in that order. “ I have plans . . . with Rachel. We’re both going to some lame paint store, she wants to add to the bedroom with more “color,” whatever the fuck that means.” She ended with a joke played off her own gender, of her not being womanly in tuned. Bam didn’t catch the joke. Ryan panicked and tensed as Bam’s back went ridged, his fists locked in tight grasps that could break his paper thin flesh, all that the name that glided over Ryan’s lips. The name that alined and curved in a sort of affection to it. It was a name of a person not apart of the CKY crew, not the Jackass team, not in the camera/technological shit party, or a family member of odd natural habits and behaviors, or even a lyrical appeasing rock star. No a stranger’s name it was. The background sound of the people, the blurs of colorful passing people and the dimming roasting lights and the light coos of the breeze outside were deaf to Ryan’s painfully alert ears. Her chest gave a painful squeeze even as the weight of Bam’s head lifted from her breastplate. The lingering smell of the suds of the washed out shampoo of Bam’s morning shower was her only smell. The twisted curls of disgusted lips that gleamed with beer or saliva were her eye’s rapture. Bam was at full height. His outline of form sent the rest behind in a background of watercolor vision to Ryan. She didn’t flutter foot to foot anymore but held her ground, if Bam saw fear he would feed off it for his amusement. But fuck she was terrified.
“Her, her, what does she want? Christ Ry, you don’t even hang out with us anymore! She is taking all your time, all the time you spent with us, it’s gone! Its all fucking gone! You don’t drink with us, you don’t want to go to skate demos, hell, Ryan you blow off shit to go see her fucking parents!” Ryan’s heart shouted in outrage, her lip pulled back in a curl but she never spoke. Bam’s frame heightened much like the snakes he fear so, his eye aflame with a passion of betrayal. He chest was out, his clothes tightened in the right places to make a fan swoon in a hand-clasped sigh. Bam made himself in emphasis of attention, what he always wanted. He made her notice him and only him but unfortunately, as always it won’t last much like his anger drunk buzz.
Bam wobbled to her side but the wobbling was just as intimating as his current persona. He was close to her side. His exhales hitting her cheek and the rise of his chest encasing her arm and brushing her breast. Ryan payed no mind, only her eyes focused little to the enraged face, the hues of his cheekbones, and the taunt veins in his neck. She could feel the oxygen of her last gasp of air choking her, like a final breath until diving into the unknown, sun forgotten depths of the sea. Her eyes swallowed her face, her lips slightly parted and her world in front of her in a blur, the only of the figure to her side. She was dying. She concluded.
“She can’t do for you what I can. It’s not natural, not normal, she can’t give you normal. I could, we could be what we were meant to be. Fuck, we could be the next Phil and Ape, but I let myself go. Please, Ry, please.” His warm pants tickled the shell of Ryan’s ear. His last statement flicked his tongue in a plea that it came dangerously close to her lobe. The highlights of the lights cupped his face down to the flash of flesh before being cut of viewing by his shirt. The warmth gave him innocence though the words that flowed through his mouth weren’t. Ryan’s heart caved in from the “not natural” part of Bam’s aliment of words of hate, of desperation. She knew Bam was lying. He wasn’t homophobic but an affectionate Bam was on the prowl. He was hungry, hungry for the prey that was promised to him, the only reason she thought to be his pursuit of her. Ryan could feel a choking sense of lies from her own mentality.
“Bam . . .” That was all she said. That all she had say with that tone. She pleaded in rebuttal, a plea for him to stop. He was breaking her, and he knew it.
Bam pulled away as if burn, invisible third-degree burns scorching his skin to a light sizzle that could only be felt by Bam. He pulled back his weight to the heel of his black and white, slightly scoffed Audio shoes, the floor crying out in a watery squeak in rebuttal. Bam’s lower back gave a dull thud at him hitting the cheap pine of the pool table, the balls goggling from their green carpeted rest briefly before resettling. His face in an expression that made her heart twisted more than one to many times. Like a faded memory of a tatty old flick his face, his facial pullback was in a lock. A musty scent of old washed over her in remembrance of when she came face to face with that look, it was like a closed fist punch to the gut. She could feel that lingering sense of being punched several years back never left her. That feeling had rested its knuckles against her naval flesh to wait, and when upon the timing to pull back and strike again, until she was breathless and their knuckles bleeding.
“How could you betray me, you always betray me, you . . .” Bam sputtered off at the end, the word bitch was left to hang in the air. Ryan wasn’t offended, she had no room to be. “For Jesse at first when I wanted to be your best friend, when I met you first, when you didn’t know anyone at school. For Knoxville, when I was your best friend after I won on Jesse I have to deal with this shit again. You go to his side after he comes back, ruin my fucking Hummer, and shit. For your random bitches, for a random shitty cunt, when we were young it was to be me. Me, damn you asshole, me! I hadn’t had a chance, not you fucking chance to prove myself, I could have but you couldn’t fucking wait for me! You ran from me to some whore, I was too fucking young to understand but knew you had screwed over my future. Fuck you, fuck you!” He screamed until hoarse. His pitch in volume was so coarse that she thought his vocal cords may be ripped and caused his face to a hue with internal bleeding. She felt prying eyes but when she looked around no one was looking in their direction. All still drinking, all still borderline comatose drunk, all still sitting with useless chatter, all laughing and looking for sexual encounters for the sheets at home, all involved with themselves, all couldn’t hear them under the lights and the glasses. She was thankful.
She could only stare, that was all she could do. Her staring unnerved Bam, and it was apparent, his swaying and harshened breathing dead give ways. Streaks of lights in his background reminded her of the footage from “Haggard,” and the same sorrowful, dysfunctional relationships of the movie. The lights soaking his pale skin tone bathing him in golden orange, his shirt loosening and tightening with his chest’s movements, his shoes knocking against the leg of the pool table and his face in waiting impatiently. She gave him a flat look of dead eyes. She had to be dead not to melt into him. He had the same thought. Bam stood there pondering. How could she be doing this to him? What does her cunt of the month have instead of him? He could give her things she can’t. He pondered, he wondered, he begged for the knowledge not knowing that he milled over the same questions every time he got to that degree of drunk, and every time she was around at that degree.
It was an overload for Bam’s buzzed brain.. His mind was soaked like a sponge, filled to the scalp with alcohol. Propelling his body in a forceful push off Bam took to his feet in a movement of a newborn mammal. His arms went out to steady him, his only pole of balance. His head was lower in a vomiting hanging position giving Ryan a full view of his locks, of the scar of his flip into Evil Jared’s shitty “lake.” Bam still in a swaying of sea legs couldn’t steady himself and fell forward into waiting arms. Bam breathed heavily, his cheek in blush hue resting against a calm exhaling and inhaling chest that smelled of sweat, stale bodily earth and a hint of cleaning fabric. He closed his eyes in a burning wake of restlessness or the burning of premature tears in brimming corners of eyes. Ryan didn’t even look down into the body warp in her links of fairly thin yet unfeminine toned arms of pores leaking booze. Bam pushed off in unbalanced power, confused, hurt, betrayed, and drunk didn’t mix for him to equal out his power. His nails clung to her shirt clothing a second longer only to come out with his pull and pushing out with a harsh amount of strength. Ryan stumbled back on too thankfully greatly undamaged reflexed sneaker clad feet. Her body stayed in the position of being pushed, her stomach curved in, and her rest her body overhanging it, she gave Bam an awaiting look of his next rash action.
It didn’t take long. “I need to . . . I need to get out of here, I need to leave,” with that Bam encircled Ryan left side in a brush of stale air. Before heading to the flimsy wooden bar doors, Bam’s hands were encased in deep burying of his slink, velvet like shine paint’s pocket. Ryan’s eyes, though strained to the point her pupils, if possible hurt, locked of the wriggling fingers in those pockets. She stared as the fabric creased and emptied, churned like the seas, like her alcohol, fizzing stomach in a mixture of acids, Bam’s fingers locking in his pockets, Bam’s finger lacing in a clawing grip into her diaphragm, metaphorically. Her hearing was back to normal to the useless beer babble and bar scene atmosphere until she heard it. It was a jiggling, a snickering of metal. It was keys. Her heart locked and her feet edged forward in a minimum of invisible friction grasping the soles of her shoes at Bam’s semi-turned, downward gazing back as he found what he needed. Bam flicked his hair in a cheesy “Bay Watch,” or some blonde haired, blue-eyed stereotype was he refocused. He had his keys in trembling, intoxicated man’s palm. In a swirling shadow Ryan watched him go. A cape of rich royal purple fashion encircling him, his pants tightening and breathing out in creases of leather or some other shiny pant material, knowing Bam’s unconcern of cash in could be fucking gold, his shoes hitting like drums on floorboards in her eardrums, and his arms and hair moving to the pace he set, his keys dangling in limp fingers.
She choked. He was planning to drive. Ryan heaved her tried, boozed up body forward, past the limp noodle entrancing bodies of the worn out beats, past the uplifted arms in a cheer or nonverbal call on another fill to the rim frothy drink, past them all for Bam were nearing the shabby oak doors. He was escaping her reach. His body readying to be hit with warm midnight summer fresh, copper smelling air, to the vegetation of unkept proportions, to the gravel of skidding feet and the lingering foamy scent of vehicle purring and engine oil, out of her reach.
No. She caught him with the tips of her fingers felt like sandpaper against the slick fabric of Bam’s whispering jacket. Gripping his arm muscles in a controlling hold, Ryan’s chest pressed against his back to hold him in place. His body jerked under her touch but that wasn’t the focus her attention, it was his throat. Bam’s Adam’s apple bobbled much of that of a fishing rod’s bobble on the paper thin surface of water, of a stormy sea. “Bam, you can’t drive,” Ryan stated in a mock tone of Ape’s commanding like pleading of ill ideas of amusement of her son’s sadistic humor point-of-view. “Your drunk. You’re angry, I understand you don’t what to . . . Bam . . . Bam?” Ryan only had a view of Bam’s chin and cheekbones that were normally winter pale fresh but now, now a sea-green mist, his throat growing taunt in willing of pushing back whatever want to escape.
Bam’s body gradually caved inward, as some invisible force of gravity was directly placed in the core of his abdominal muscles. Ryan laced an arm around his curving lower back, her ashy, slightly dried out arm flesh raspy against the horribly expensive material. Her other arm rested against the quivering stomach. Bam slouched forward further that could be a direct cause and effect of him turning an odd shade of sickly green. He made shallow swallowing sounds of contracting throat muscles, protesting thickly from their enlarging push against his thin throat flesh. Ryan leaned inward as if she could successfully diagnose Bam’s illness though it was painfully apparent that he had a vomiting future. A hand clasped her abdominal encircled arm. Nails dug harshly into her skin in a panic of knowing what was going to happen but not what to do about it. Ryan focused off the crescent moon scaring on her hued skin but more to the pale knuckles and shaking frame of her best friend. His skin shook in trembles off his form and he hunched further into himself but Ryan didn’t take immediate aid of her friend without order.
With ashy lips he spoke, drool heavily spilling in the corners of his mouth in a prelude to tragedy. Eyes that quivered much like the rest of his body, in dilating, iris clouding from sickness, Bam’s eyes locked on her own. She closed so near that they shared the same stale air, the same personal space and the same distress but she listened to the ill air flowing from those to be worshiped lips.
“ Ryan, I think . . . I . . . oh god . . . I-am-gonna-be-sick.”
Ryan took control. She was one to adapt to any situation, the level-headed sense of thought of questioning or speaking out against what seemed to be a golden chuckle worthy idea to others. Basically she was the smartest dumb ass out of a group of jackasses. Ryan gripped the hem of Bam’s pants to gain a grasp of aiding her suddenly taut, popping and locking arms to carry the majority of Bam’s weight. She tossed the noodle limp arm of Bam’s across her buckled down shoulders, his wrist limp on her arm socket but fingers sickly gripping the fibers of her cloth. The grip didn’t last long as Ryan raised her hand to grip the limp one, the grip was soft but strong. The grasp reminded Ryan of the whole hand grasp of her nephew to her sole index finger. It was heartbreakingly reality of weakness, which was how she would but if she was a fucking poet. With a lean-to in place of his best friend, his female partner in crime and a source of steady hold on for a ready start, the two focused in on the destination needed. Shuffling at a pace that would be a mildly sober person would say slow but to a drunk a jack rabbit sprit, Ryan and Bam were a sight to be seen. Bam’s toes were turned was that they hit the oncoming ridges of wooden panels, his shoe bottom completely off the floor. Bam’s head fixed in a limp mock vomiting stance, his hair in a curtain of satin black that were swinging off the play of gravity. His stomach was caved in with a punched style and his clothing seemed to fix him a little less but the sick tint never left his skin, and the choking bubble in his throat never stop bobbing of release.
Ryan was commonly shifting her gaze to studying Bam back to the piss-ridden nook of the corner. Ryan just making out the hanging signs of gender on the equally stained doors of the floors and the corner tops. She was buckling under the extra weight of another body but she made head way, commonly making reassuring small talk to the unresponsive Bam. Her profile was equally haggard in drapery hair of blonde, her skin a tint of dawn hue, and her pants getting hit with a steady dip of Bam’s prelude to sickness drool. They were a matched pair of bar profiles. Dodging the tables, which were clipped and sent to jiggle on their coasters, past the slurring bodies of solid gel with there flow that one would think liquid made up 90% of their body, and past the bar’s decor, old photographs of past thin forms smiling and shaking hands and the audio speakers of busted bass. Ryan pulled them into the deciding turn where Bam was to . . . relieve himself.
She stopped in the barely personal worthy nook that was a fork of female or male needs. Out of basic instinct her left foot pivoted to the direction where a pair of circled ended rectangles, a big show of obesity skirt, and circular head on nonexistent shoulders but the slight nudge died half way. Her toes curled and her stomach dropped in a pulling to match the disgusted frown she wore so beautifully like her loose leave clothing. Moaning, it hit her ear in a muffle calling from the door’s closed off barrier, filtering only the highest pitches through. Growling she shifted her weight and Bam’s to the opposite dividing point where an equally pictured sign of gender. Muttering about how bathrooms were for pissing not for railing was sulking on dark, low hanging around her. She used her foot in a quick kick to open the door with a thunder clap bang. Her kicking action caused Bam to moan, shaking, and slushing his sickness in a blender of bodily organ casing. She gave a quick glaze at her companion knowing that their time was running out. Quicken pace of the two sets of feet, only one truly working the new flooring nearly caused Ryan to tripped over her own feet. Cursing she looked down, quickly disgusted by the sight. Urine littered the ground, staining the tile grout, the small tiles were mismatched like children’s coloring, the sinks had rusted stains and leaked soft beads of droplets of brown tinted water, the urinals and the door less or broken off the hinges of the stalls were painted and mark with “been here,” and various “Fuck,” “Sucks,” and “Cunts,” with odd vomit color tones. She was nearly sent sprawling to the filth ridden flooring has Bam left her side and in a flash of black and purple ran to the nearest stall.
She watched him gripped in yellow toilet lip, his knees hitting dirty brown tiles, and his head bent to project his sick with less that accurate aim. She took in the seen objectively, as objectively she could while standing in a rotten corpse wafting smell hitting her nostril’s tiny hair’s in tickling illness. She walked to his side. She crouched to his level gaining what little room in the flimsy walls and scanning with dispassionate eyes of that of watching licking flames of the phrases that made a mother blush. Her knees popped and her elbows rested oddly on her knees has her gaze flickered in the equally displeasing sight of Bam’s stomach contents and the sides of the toilet of white and brown tones. Raising her head, she was met to see Bam who was staring at her, his head resting of a tilt to meet her. His mouth of slightly opened, his lips plump with acid abuse and his body profile totally in the pitiful position of still gripping the toilet lip as if a lifeline. He moaned in inner pain before swaying of his shaking knees, unsettled on the ridge of the flooring.
He began to fall to his side where only met him was diseased walls. He never met the wall as Ryan once again embraced him in a hold of a mother to an infant just left her once swollen womb. Resting his head close to her in a position that had placed just for Bam in seemed, she cradled him had he moan and mumbled in slurs that were incoherent. Their skins melded in a sticky, tape like meeting, their clothing of rich gothic buttoned clothing to cheap 99% percent cotton, to lower class jean material and the expensive black tight, only to cut of the meeting at the knees has their legs bent to support their body weight. Pillowed on her chest, he nuzzled in her chest blindly. Ryan didn’t know if were out of a pervert manly instinct or for sickly comfort all sought out for. For children sought comfort from their mother’s medicine know-how or their father’s rough, course patting head worthy hands or even a person with the mere title M.D. or Doctor at the begging of their name. She didn’t care. She never did in these meetings, she would hold on, she would be that comfort, if only for the while. She would be April, the mother the home’s doctor. She would be Phil, that fatherly shadow at the doorway watching their children from afar. She would be her their shared peers, Novak, Dico, Rake, they all for the manly moral support. She would even be Missy, the arms of comfort around his torso, the lips of his sore ones, and even the body to shoulder to lean on. She would never be them when he was sober, never the comfort that came with Missy that a man and woman shared through sex, that meeting of messy liquids and various holes.
She sat there, on that dirty flooring, staring blankly off into the forest of wisps of slightly curled hair. She found that she could stay here forever, past the smell, the horrid landscape, and past the people out no doubt not even taking note of their absence. She could wait and hope that she was normal, to give Bam what was promise to him in a way. She could hold him in her arms, encased in folds of flesh in a platonic hold in her point-of-view. She could stay dispassionate to the world, let the time pass to decades and yet her wealthier away like the stone. She just wanted Bam to know that she had equal trouble letting him go. She was trying hard to do what was right, too not lead Bam on, to take what Missy truly wanted. Ryan only wanted to make Bam, no, herself with her guilt feel better. Burying her nose to inhale the deep smell of shampoo, and to listen to Bam’s soft gurgling snores as his body shut down from his body fatigue. She held him there, surrounded by a reality that she pleaded to for a pausing, for a rewind at life. Back to the chubby cheeked youth, the baby fat laced arms and legs, and the short of weathered down life they currently were, she wanted a second chance. No, not a second chance she wanted a change, for she couldn’t relive that heart breaking cobalt blues when she confessed. Her apologies and might-have-been’s were all she had in this playing field just back then as well. Tightening her hold, causing Bam to shuffle in her grip but settle back down. She spoke. She spoke in the layers of satin black, to the stale unresponsive air, the leaking sinks, the pooled up vomit, the mock notepaper stall walls, to anyone not there.
“ I been trying hard to do what’s right, to show how much I love you by letting you go. But I could stay here all night.”
Sorry for degrading you Dunn, and viewers of my poor writing skills. I want to do more of female!Dunn in real situations of the Real Male Dunn's life, but I want to which are to be desired. Comments are free crack for the soul. Hope you enjoyed - Courtneynus