Smoking - Chapter 16
Title:: Smoking
Genre:: Drama
Fandom:: RPS Vam, Villinde, Dugera, Lindunn, others.
Rating:: R
Summary:: A story, reaching back to the beginning like a twisted, curling whisp of smoke from a slow burning fire.
Disclaimer::Most characters are property only of themselves; I own the storyline and the writing. This is a work of ficiton; treat it as such.
Links
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Oh god, I’m drunk.
I could barely stand up. I could barely remember my own name. All I knew is that I was very, very wasted. Completely intoxicated.
The music was booming; it was shaking the walls, it was shaking dust from the whitewash on the ceiling. It was loud. It was very loud. And there were people everywhere.
The end of the first semester of 11th grade seemed like a good enough reason for a huge party for me. And, apparently, for the rest of my grade. And for the 10th grade. And for the 12th grade. And for people I’d never seen before in my life.
We’d also just played our first gig in a place other than a school talent show, and it had gone almost perfectly.
And I’d just turned old enough to buy all the alcohol I could possibly want ever.
Seemed like reason enough for a huge party for me.
And so, big party there was.
The hottest girls in the city were draped all over my bed, drunker than… drunk… things… and I was drunker than them… but… for once, I had no interest in girls.
Because it seemed that alcohol brought out the things in me that I spent most of my time repressing.
Mostly, the fact that I was practically desperate for…
“Oh, shit. That’s a table…”
I managed to maneuver around the table without damaging my family jewels and kept scouting the room for my target. Who was apparently evading me. Which was frankly unacceptable.
“Fuckin’ Lindström. Lily! Lily! Where’t’fuck you go?!”
Where is the little fucker? He better not be hiding…
I’d forced him to come to the party. I thought he needed to get out. I felt like he was cramping my style, because I was stuck with him, and he didn’t want anything to do with anyone else outside of me and the band.
He’s here somewhere… where’d he go?
I could barely walk. I was basically crawling around my house, diving from solid object to solid object - I would fall from the table to the wall, from the wall to the cabinet, I tumbled down the stairs, I grabbed for the sofa and pulled myself towards it, and I rolled myself along the wall… until somehow, I fell… right on top of him.
“Hei Lily! There you are!”
“Got drink, Ville?” His sarcasm was a new development, his latest layer of self-defense, but I kind of liked it.
“Just a little… wan’ some? There’s gotta be more somewhere…”
“No, really, I’m good.”
He pushed me off of him, steadying me on my feet, one eyebrow raised.
And just him looking at me like that… it was too much, way too much for my intoxicated brain.
I snapped.
“Come here.”
I grabbed him by the wrist and pulled - or rather, stumbled - him over towards the nearest door.
“Ville? What the heck?”
“Shuddup.”
It was our broom closet. Empty, except for a few coats. And there was no light.
But I didn’t care.
It wasn’t quite my bedroom, as I thought it was - because I forgot that I was, in fact, on the ground floor - but it would serve to my drunken purposes.
It would serve them very well.
------------
The closet was dark; it was small; it was cramped. The two boys, both taller than average and one of them drunker than usual, were a tight fit.
The blonde one was confused. He didn’t know what they were doing in the closet. He’d only gone along because the other was so drunk, he wasn’t sure what would have happened if he’d said no. He would have had to deal with drunken anger, with punches, with shouting, maybe with tears… It was just so much easier to go along with the wishes of a drunk man. Even if it ended up with you in a broom closet with the drunk party draped helplessly around your neck.
“Ville, why are we in here?”
The drunk one - Ville - looked up at the blonde one - Linde - and seemed to consider him for a few moments. His eyes were blurry, they couldn’t really see straight, he could barely tell whose neck it was he was draped around and indeed, in the morning, he wouldn’t remember how he got to where he ended up; but for now he was stuck in a closet and he was pressed up against his best friend and suddenly, he lost all the self control he’d been forcing on himself for years, lost it all in just one second of hazy, drunken eye contact, and his lips ended up smothering his friend’s.
Drunken kisses are sloppy, and often not pre-meditated. But this was both a messy and a forceful kiss.
Ville - the drunk one -, he wanted things his way. Even in his inebriated state, he needed to be in control. He yanked Linde’s face towards him, he stole those thin pink lips, he shoved his tongue between them, he threw him against the wall and he wasn’t going to let him move even if he wanted to.
And here’s the thing: Linde wasn’t sure he wanted to.
The problem was, alcohol had managed to find it’s way into Linde’s drinks too, and for Linde, just a little bit was enough to confuse him.
But the tongue in his mouth was probing and desperate, not soft and delicate and tender like Linde wished it might have been. There were hands bruising his jaw, and he had a coat hanger in his back.
And Ville was his best friend.
But it was Ville’s idea. This whole thing, it was all on Ville. That was what Linde was taking comfort in. That he hadn’t initiated it, he hadn’t even anticipated it… he was innocent… innocent except for the fact that he was also kissing, his tongue was also thrusting - if not so violently - and as soon as he had a grip on what exactly was happening, he was grabbing and massaging and running his hands underneath shirts and over smooth ivory skin.
The broom closet was heating up, lips were smacking and throats were groaning and heads were banging against walls, and hands were groping, stroking, exploring.
Two best friends - who so often wondered at their ability to read each other’s minds - were getting to know each other in a way at least one of them had never imagined… and that the other had dreamt of way too often.
And both of them were enjoying it. And they could tell that they were both enjoying it.
Then … then something changed.
Because Ville… Ville needed more. He had needed more for years. And he was going to get it.
Because he always got everything he wanted.
“Ville?”
Linde was worried when he pulled back suddenly; worried he’d done something wrong, worried he’d realized what he was doing and that he’d disappear and never talk to him again, worried he’d think that Linde had tried it on with him and would want to kill him. But then again, Linde was always worried.
The sound of a zipper ripped through the thick, beating silence of labored, panting breath, and Linde’s eyes widened. They flew open even more when Ville grabbed his hand from where it rested still on the small of his back and forced it into his now open fly, whispering the words, “Do It” harshly into his ear.
Linde gulped. It was the loudest sound in the cupboard since the door had slammed behind them. Ville was hard and throbbing in his hand and Ville’s hand was on his, pressing it against his crotch insistently, and Linde had no choice.
No choice that he could see, that is, with Ville’s begging cock dripping in his hand and Ville’s drunken, dead-weight body pressed up against him and Ville’s head in his neck, whispering those words into his ear, nipping at his skin…
Ville had him like putty in his hands and Linde… Linde didn’t even know if he wanted to get out of there.
So, he did it. He wrapped his long, nimble, guitar-calloused fingers around Ville’s cock and he pumped and squeezed and stroked for all he was worth. His lips were captured by Ville’s as he pulled, and Ville was moaning into them, he was biting at them, he was sucking on them, he was pleading with Linde for more, for faster, for harder… and Linde did everything he was asked to, throwing in flair of his own, doing to Ville what he knew felt good on himself…
Apparently, it worked, because soon the closet was filled with the sounds of a fast approaching orgasm, about to hit Ville in the stomach like a steam train, and before either of them knew it, Ville was crying out, his body seizing up, freezing with his mouth wide open, his eyes rolling back into his head… and then he was shuddering and shivering against Linde’s hard body, moaning “Oh, god Lily, sweet Jesus, good god… God, Barbie…” until the last drop of his load had finished spilling all over the front of his and Linde’s jeans, and he had collapsed completely against his best friend.
It was a few minutes before Ville gained his breath again. A few completely silent, completely still minutes. Linde didn’t want to move, lest he break some sort of spell that had fallen over the both of them. Ville didn’t have the physical capacity to move; his head was racing, his blood was thumping, and he was thinking to himself - after the sobering affect of that orgasm - “Good god, what just happened? What did I just do? What the hell did I just do?”
And then, after he’d got it sorted in his mind that he’d just screwed over any pretense of his own of heterosexuality, that he’d just taken advantage of his best friend and enjoyed it, that he had just fulfilled his dreams of three years, and that he was in a broom closet in his own house and that anyone might walk in at any minute, he pushed himself up off of Linde and, steadying himself by grabbing onto coats and holding onto the door handle, he decided that the best thing to do was to play it cool - and to get the hell out of there.
He fixed his pants, after checking that there were no stains on the front of them, and opened the door with one hand behind his back, fixing Linde in a harsh stare.
“Don’t you dare tell a soul about this, Barbie. D’ya hear? Not one soul.”
And with that, he was gone, and there was just one boy left in the broom closet, a very confused boy - now even more confused than he had been when he had been pulled in in the first place. The boy’s blonde hair was covering his shamed face, and he was shaking, and the front of his now painfully tight pants was covered in his best friend’s cum, and he didn’t know what was happening to him, or to them, or to anything, and he was scared - scared about what would happen if anyone found out - and he was horrified because… because kissing Ville was better than all the kisses he’d ever had put together. And he didn’t know why. And he didn’t know why being forced to do that hadn’t actually bothered him so much. And he didn’t know why he was prepared to hide Ville’s secret for him. And he didn’t know what had brought this on in the first place; except that Ville was drunk and you never knew what was going to happen when you put Ville and a bottle of alcohol in the same room.
He didn’t know a lot of things.
But he figured that was normal for him… and that it couldn’t be helped. There was probably not one single thing he could do, or would be willing to do, to change it.
So he’d just have to learn how to deal with it.
And he did.
Genre:: Drama
Fandom:: RPS Vam, Villinde, Dugera, Lindunn, others.
Rating:: R
Summary:: A story, reaching back to the beginning like a twisted, curling whisp of smoke from a slow burning fire.
Disclaimer::Most characters are property only of themselves; I own the storyline and the writing. This is a work of ficiton; treat it as such.
Links
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Oh god, I’m drunk.
I could barely stand up. I could barely remember my own name. All I knew is that I was very, very wasted. Completely intoxicated.
The music was booming; it was shaking the walls, it was shaking dust from the whitewash on the ceiling. It was loud. It was very loud. And there were people everywhere.
The end of the first semester of 11th grade seemed like a good enough reason for a huge party for me. And, apparently, for the rest of my grade. And for the 10th grade. And for the 12th grade. And for people I’d never seen before in my life.
We’d also just played our first gig in a place other than a school talent show, and it had gone almost perfectly.
And I’d just turned old enough to buy all the alcohol I could possibly want ever.
Seemed like reason enough for a huge party for me.
And so, big party there was.
The hottest girls in the city were draped all over my bed, drunker than… drunk… things… and I was drunker than them… but… for once, I had no interest in girls.
Because it seemed that alcohol brought out the things in me that I spent most of my time repressing.
Mostly, the fact that I was practically desperate for…
“Oh, shit. That’s a table…”
I managed to maneuver around the table without damaging my family jewels and kept scouting the room for my target. Who was apparently evading me. Which was frankly unacceptable.
“Fuckin’ Lindström. Lily! Lily! Where’t’fuck you go?!”
Where is the little fucker? He better not be hiding…
I’d forced him to come to the party. I thought he needed to get out. I felt like he was cramping my style, because I was stuck with him, and he didn’t want anything to do with anyone else outside of me and the band.
He’s here somewhere… where’d he go?
I could barely walk. I was basically crawling around my house, diving from solid object to solid object - I would fall from the table to the wall, from the wall to the cabinet, I tumbled down the stairs, I grabbed for the sofa and pulled myself towards it, and I rolled myself along the wall… until somehow, I fell… right on top of him.
“Hei Lily! There you are!”
“Got drink, Ville?” His sarcasm was a new development, his latest layer of self-defense, but I kind of liked it.
“Just a little… wan’ some? There’s gotta be more somewhere…”
“No, really, I’m good.”
He pushed me off of him, steadying me on my feet, one eyebrow raised.
And just him looking at me like that… it was too much, way too much for my intoxicated brain.
I snapped.
“Come here.”
I grabbed him by the wrist and pulled - or rather, stumbled - him over towards the nearest door.
“Ville? What the heck?”
“Shuddup.”
It was our broom closet. Empty, except for a few coats. And there was no light.
But I didn’t care.
It wasn’t quite my bedroom, as I thought it was - because I forgot that I was, in fact, on the ground floor - but it would serve to my drunken purposes.
It would serve them very well.
------------
The closet was dark; it was small; it was cramped. The two boys, both taller than average and one of them drunker than usual, were a tight fit.
The blonde one was confused. He didn’t know what they were doing in the closet. He’d only gone along because the other was so drunk, he wasn’t sure what would have happened if he’d said no. He would have had to deal with drunken anger, with punches, with shouting, maybe with tears… It was just so much easier to go along with the wishes of a drunk man. Even if it ended up with you in a broom closet with the drunk party draped helplessly around your neck.
“Ville, why are we in here?”
The drunk one - Ville - looked up at the blonde one - Linde - and seemed to consider him for a few moments. His eyes were blurry, they couldn’t really see straight, he could barely tell whose neck it was he was draped around and indeed, in the morning, he wouldn’t remember how he got to where he ended up; but for now he was stuck in a closet and he was pressed up against his best friend and suddenly, he lost all the self control he’d been forcing on himself for years, lost it all in just one second of hazy, drunken eye contact, and his lips ended up smothering his friend’s.
Drunken kisses are sloppy, and often not pre-meditated. But this was both a messy and a forceful kiss.
Ville - the drunk one -, he wanted things his way. Even in his inebriated state, he needed to be in control. He yanked Linde’s face towards him, he stole those thin pink lips, he shoved his tongue between them, he threw him against the wall and he wasn’t going to let him move even if he wanted to.
And here’s the thing: Linde wasn’t sure he wanted to.
The problem was, alcohol had managed to find it’s way into Linde’s drinks too, and for Linde, just a little bit was enough to confuse him.
But the tongue in his mouth was probing and desperate, not soft and delicate and tender like Linde wished it might have been. There were hands bruising his jaw, and he had a coat hanger in his back.
And Ville was his best friend.
But it was Ville’s idea. This whole thing, it was all on Ville. That was what Linde was taking comfort in. That he hadn’t initiated it, he hadn’t even anticipated it… he was innocent… innocent except for the fact that he was also kissing, his tongue was also thrusting - if not so violently - and as soon as he had a grip on what exactly was happening, he was grabbing and massaging and running his hands underneath shirts and over smooth ivory skin.
The broom closet was heating up, lips were smacking and throats were groaning and heads were banging against walls, and hands were groping, stroking, exploring.
Two best friends - who so often wondered at their ability to read each other’s minds - were getting to know each other in a way at least one of them had never imagined… and that the other had dreamt of way too often.
And both of them were enjoying it. And they could tell that they were both enjoying it.
Then … then something changed.
Because Ville… Ville needed more. He had needed more for years. And he was going to get it.
Because he always got everything he wanted.
“Ville?”
Linde was worried when he pulled back suddenly; worried he’d done something wrong, worried he’d realized what he was doing and that he’d disappear and never talk to him again, worried he’d think that Linde had tried it on with him and would want to kill him. But then again, Linde was always worried.
The sound of a zipper ripped through the thick, beating silence of labored, panting breath, and Linde’s eyes widened. They flew open even more when Ville grabbed his hand from where it rested still on the small of his back and forced it into his now open fly, whispering the words, “Do It” harshly into his ear.
Linde gulped. It was the loudest sound in the cupboard since the door had slammed behind them. Ville was hard and throbbing in his hand and Ville’s hand was on his, pressing it against his crotch insistently, and Linde had no choice.
No choice that he could see, that is, with Ville’s begging cock dripping in his hand and Ville’s drunken, dead-weight body pressed up against him and Ville’s head in his neck, whispering those words into his ear, nipping at his skin…
Ville had him like putty in his hands and Linde… Linde didn’t even know if he wanted to get out of there.
So, he did it. He wrapped his long, nimble, guitar-calloused fingers around Ville’s cock and he pumped and squeezed and stroked for all he was worth. His lips were captured by Ville’s as he pulled, and Ville was moaning into them, he was biting at them, he was sucking on them, he was pleading with Linde for more, for faster, for harder… and Linde did everything he was asked to, throwing in flair of his own, doing to Ville what he knew felt good on himself…
Apparently, it worked, because soon the closet was filled with the sounds of a fast approaching orgasm, about to hit Ville in the stomach like a steam train, and before either of them knew it, Ville was crying out, his body seizing up, freezing with his mouth wide open, his eyes rolling back into his head… and then he was shuddering and shivering against Linde’s hard body, moaning “Oh, god Lily, sweet Jesus, good god… God, Barbie…” until the last drop of his load had finished spilling all over the front of his and Linde’s jeans, and he had collapsed completely against his best friend.
It was a few minutes before Ville gained his breath again. A few completely silent, completely still minutes. Linde didn’t want to move, lest he break some sort of spell that had fallen over the both of them. Ville didn’t have the physical capacity to move; his head was racing, his blood was thumping, and he was thinking to himself - after the sobering affect of that orgasm - “Good god, what just happened? What did I just do? What the hell did I just do?”
And then, after he’d got it sorted in his mind that he’d just screwed over any pretense of his own of heterosexuality, that he’d just taken advantage of his best friend and enjoyed it, that he had just fulfilled his dreams of three years, and that he was in a broom closet in his own house and that anyone might walk in at any minute, he pushed himself up off of Linde and, steadying himself by grabbing onto coats and holding onto the door handle, he decided that the best thing to do was to play it cool - and to get the hell out of there.
He fixed his pants, after checking that there were no stains on the front of them, and opened the door with one hand behind his back, fixing Linde in a harsh stare.
“Don’t you dare tell a soul about this, Barbie. D’ya hear? Not one soul.”
And with that, he was gone, and there was just one boy left in the broom closet, a very confused boy - now even more confused than he had been when he had been pulled in in the first place. The boy’s blonde hair was covering his shamed face, and he was shaking, and the front of his now painfully tight pants was covered in his best friend’s cum, and he didn’t know what was happening to him, or to them, or to anything, and he was scared - scared about what would happen if anyone found out - and he was horrified because… because kissing Ville was better than all the kisses he’d ever had put together. And he didn’t know why. And he didn’t know why being forced to do that hadn’t actually bothered him so much. And he didn’t know why he was prepared to hide Ville’s secret for him. And he didn’t know what had brought this on in the first place; except that Ville was drunk and you never knew what was going to happen when you put Ville and a bottle of alcohol in the same room.
He didn’t know a lot of things.
But he figured that was normal for him… and that it couldn’t be helped. There was probably not one single thing he could do, or would be willing to do, to change it.
So he’d just have to learn how to deal with it.
And he did.