the stage is set. [3/?]
TITLE: The Stage Is Set. [3/?]
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: R/possible NC-17 overall.
POV: Third-ish.
PAIRING: I can’t tell you yet; it’s complicated!
SUMMARY: AU. He met her on a Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday, like any other day of the week, really, except that it wasn’t at all.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own or know them, and I am 200% certain this never happened.
WARNINGS: Het, and it’s central to the plot. Please wait for the slash. =]
A/N: Under the cut, ladies and gents!
At first I thought this story would be somewhere around seven to eight parts; I have written up to part six, and I still don't know how it's going to end. Hold onto your hats, boys and girls!
Also, paramorefic, paramorefic, paramorefic! I wasn't kidding you guys when I said I was going to make it. After I post this, I'm going to code the layout I made and get the userinfo up...but in the mean time, everyone who said they were interested should go join and start writing! Yeah! =D
Now, the story, what you're all actually (hopefully) here for...
///
The music is booming loud and thick through the walls of the club, and the bouncer looks them up and down, uncrossing his arms, and then pulls the door open. They walk through the steel frame, and it’s like entering another world of flashing lights, pulsating colours, liquor-slick floors. Brendon brushes his hand against the back of hers, and smiles when she twines her fingers in his, eyes glued to the congealed mass of people that is the dance floor. She leans over, breath tickling against his ear, and she smells like makeup and perfume.
“Dance?” and he doesn’t even think, just nods and lets her pull his wrist and lead him towards the floor.
“I’ll go buy drinks!” Jon yells, laughing over the din, and Brendon just nods and gets pulled into the mess. They can’t even help it, they’re pressed together and against everyone else like fish in a net, messing and fussing and grinding together. She laughs at the ceiling, head thrown back, eyes shut, and presses her hips into his.
“Hey,” he says, pulling her forward, and she lifts her face to his and kisses him, bites gently at his lip, and he’s seriously, seriously gone on this girl. So gone. “So, do you think,” he says, face nearly buried in her neck, mouth close to her ear, the smell of her shampoo overwhelming everything. “Do you think we could, maybe, make this a regular thing? The two of us?” She bites gently at his neck and hitches him closer, and they’re almost slow dancing in the mess of people, slow dancing to thumping bass and irregular rhythms.
“Yeah, I think we could do that.”
----------
They stumble over to the bar, laughing and flushed, and there’s Jon, tapping his foot and sitting with three whiskey’s on the water-scarred surface.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, and Brendon downs the glass in one go, leaning towards Jon.
“Now she’s my girlfriend,” he says with a grin, glancing over to watch her sipping at the liquid in the glass.
Jon just shakes his head and downs his drink.
----------
It turns out that she’s the one that ends up taking him home, because he is not only madly in love, but also really, kind of, well, drunk. Broken. Or, no, is it smashed? Yeah, that’s it. He thinks. Maybe.
Jon drives them both to his place, because past that first drink, neither of them drank anything else - except Brendon. He drops them on the sidewalk outside his apartment building with a wave and a “Good luck,” and she just nods her head and laughs, leading him up the stairs. Somehow, between fishing the keys out of his pocket and holding him up, she manages to get the door open, and leads him to the bed.
“Hey, hey,” he mumbles, reaching his arm up. “Would you…c’mere?” She pulls the blankets up around him and leans down to kiss his cheek.
“Some other night,” she says, moving the trash can beside the bed. “I can’t stay tonight. I’ll call you in the morning, though, ‘kay?”
“Mm…I want you to stay,” he whines, turning over and opening his eyes. “I like you. You smell nice.”
“I like you, too,” she says, laughing. “The garbage can is here, okay? I’ll call you as soon as I wake up.” He closes his eyes and shifts down in the bed, trying to pout, but not being very successful.
“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, and she walks out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind her.
----------
His head hurts. Oh, god, his head really hurts. He tries to sit up. He gives up. He tries to open his eyes and - ow, fuck, that’s bright! Fine, he thinks. I’ll just lay here in bed until hell freezes over or until someone brings me water and Advil and McDonald’s breakfast.
The phone rings. It really, really, oh my god, hurts. He fumbles blindly for it, stretching his hand over the night table and knocking over a full glass of water in the process. He finally gets it to his ear, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
“’Lo,” he mutters, and his voice is scratchy low, and his throat aches, from what he couldn’t guess. The laughter on the other end of the line, low and soft, snaps his attention into focus and sends last night playing back in front of his eyes. He smiles.
“Morning, sunshine,” she says, still laughing, and his head throbspoundsroars, but he still smiles.
“Stop laughing at me,” he says, pushing his hair off his face and settling down into the bed. “It hurts.”
“It’s your own fault,” she says, but she sounds nothing like his mother, and for that he thanks some higher being.
“I know,” he sighs into the receiver, curling up and pulling the blankets to his chest. “So,” he says, and his face splits in two, eyes still closed tight against the sun, “Coffee later?”
He hears her smile on the other end. “Absolutely.”
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: R/possible NC-17 overall.
POV: Third-ish.
PAIRING: I can’t tell you yet; it’s complicated!
SUMMARY: AU. He met her on a Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday, like any other day of the week, really, except that it wasn’t at all.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own or know them, and I am 200% certain this never happened.
WARNINGS: Het, and it’s central to the plot. Please wait for the slash. =]
A/N: Under the cut, ladies and gents!
At first I thought this story would be somewhere around seven to eight parts; I have written up to part six, and I still don't know how it's going to end. Hold onto your hats, boys and girls!
Also, paramorefic, paramorefic, paramorefic! I wasn't kidding you guys when I said I was going to make it. After I post this, I'm going to code the layout I made and get the userinfo up...but in the mean time, everyone who said they were interested should go join and start writing! Yeah! =D
Now, the story, what you're all actually (hopefully) here for...
///
The music is booming loud and thick through the walls of the club, and the bouncer looks them up and down, uncrossing his arms, and then pulls the door open. They walk through the steel frame, and it’s like entering another world of flashing lights, pulsating colours, liquor-slick floors. Brendon brushes his hand against the back of hers, and smiles when she twines her fingers in his, eyes glued to the congealed mass of people that is the dance floor. She leans over, breath tickling against his ear, and she smells like makeup and perfume.
“Dance?” and he doesn’t even think, just nods and lets her pull his wrist and lead him towards the floor.
“I’ll go buy drinks!” Jon yells, laughing over the din, and Brendon just nods and gets pulled into the mess. They can’t even help it, they’re pressed together and against everyone else like fish in a net, messing and fussing and grinding together. She laughs at the ceiling, head thrown back, eyes shut, and presses her hips into his.
“Hey,” he says, pulling her forward, and she lifts her face to his and kisses him, bites gently at his lip, and he’s seriously, seriously gone on this girl. So gone. “So, do you think,” he says, face nearly buried in her neck, mouth close to her ear, the smell of her shampoo overwhelming everything. “Do you think we could, maybe, make this a regular thing? The two of us?” She bites gently at his neck and hitches him closer, and they’re almost slow dancing in the mess of people, slow dancing to thumping bass and irregular rhythms.
“Yeah, I think we could do that.”
----------
They stumble over to the bar, laughing and flushed, and there’s Jon, tapping his foot and sitting with three whiskey’s on the water-scarred surface.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, and Brendon downs the glass in one go, leaning towards Jon.
“Now she’s my girlfriend,” he says with a grin, glancing over to watch her sipping at the liquid in the glass.
Jon just shakes his head and downs his drink.
----------
It turns out that she’s the one that ends up taking him home, because he is not only madly in love, but also really, kind of, well, drunk. Broken. Or, no, is it smashed? Yeah, that’s it. He thinks. Maybe.
Jon drives them both to his place, because past that first drink, neither of them drank anything else - except Brendon. He drops them on the sidewalk outside his apartment building with a wave and a “Good luck,” and she just nods her head and laughs, leading him up the stairs. Somehow, between fishing the keys out of his pocket and holding him up, she manages to get the door open, and leads him to the bed.
“Hey, hey,” he mumbles, reaching his arm up. “Would you…c’mere?” She pulls the blankets up around him and leans down to kiss his cheek.
“Some other night,” she says, moving the trash can beside the bed. “I can’t stay tonight. I’ll call you in the morning, though, ‘kay?”
“Mm…I want you to stay,” he whines, turning over and opening his eyes. “I like you. You smell nice.”
“I like you, too,” she says, laughing. “The garbage can is here, okay? I’ll call you as soon as I wake up.” He closes his eyes and shifts down in the bed, trying to pout, but not being very successful.
“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, and she walks out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind her.
----------
His head hurts. Oh, god, his head really hurts. He tries to sit up. He gives up. He tries to open his eyes and - ow, fuck, that’s bright! Fine, he thinks. I’ll just lay here in bed until hell freezes over or until someone brings me water and Advil and McDonald’s breakfast.
The phone rings. It really, really, oh my god, hurts. He fumbles blindly for it, stretching his hand over the night table and knocking over a full glass of water in the process. He finally gets it to his ear, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
“’Lo,” he mutters, and his voice is scratchy low, and his throat aches, from what he couldn’t guess. The laughter on the other end of the line, low and soft, snaps his attention into focus and sends last night playing back in front of his eyes. He smiles.
“Morning, sunshine,” she says, still laughing, and his head throbspoundsroars, but he still smiles.
“Stop laughing at me,” he says, pushing his hair off his face and settling down into the bed. “It hurts.”
“It’s your own fault,” she says, but she sounds nothing like his mother, and for that he thanks some higher being.
“I know,” he sighs into the receiver, curling up and pulling the blankets to his chest. “So,” he says, and his face splits in two, eyes still closed tight against the sun, “Coffee later?”
He hears her smile on the other end. “Absolutely.”