PREACH WITH CONVICTION Part 2a
Title: PREACH WITH CONVICTION Part 2a
Fandom: RPS
Characters/Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (in later chapters). For now Brendon/*Religious*Pete lol
Prompt: Gluttony.
Word Count: 814
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Fake-ty fake, fake, fake.
Description: ‘...And his vocal chords were brought to life as he screamed and screamed, without realising that he was pinpointing his exact location...’
Author's Note: Thank you very much to everyone who commented! Sorry for the wait and hope you enjoy this chapter!
He sat alone at the grimy bar, waiting. An appealing location, only because it was just so unappealing. Waiting. Not a boy, not yet a man, although his imitation license told a different tale. He nodded, smirking, as the bartender passed him his - significantly past the point of counting now - next consumption, eyes lingering a little too long on his well-formed body for it to be simply coincidence.
They say you know you’re an alcoholic when you drink on your own, or when your sole reason for drinking is to get drunk. Brendon was an alcoholic. Amongst other things... Brendon was addicted to addiction; gloriously, face-down addicted to that sky-high feeling. When the falling could be mistaken for flying, and thinking was only discretionary. He lived, longing to forget who the fuck he actually was, just waiting for the next time he could escape to that wonderful place called his disillusioned mind.
The thing is, you don’t feel lonely when you’re drunk, high, stoned. Everything seems about three times more hilarious than it actually is; everyone wants to be your new best friend. But Brendon didn’t want to contemplate exactly why he did it, as the days and nights simply blurred into the next, one after another, one after another. He just knew that he did - probably always would - and that was all that mattered.
He looked down at his watch, squinting to read the undersized numbers. It was just like Will to be late. His...dealer, that was. His saviour, his messiah, the one who could give him those little pills, that white powder that made him forget what it meant to be alive... No doubt about it, Will had the power and Brendon would do anything for a tiny piece of that. Over and over again (no matter how much it hurt).
He took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, swore loudly when he saw he was down to his last one, and lit it with a sigh. He inhaled smoothly - so practised in his art - exhaled, closing his eyes and smiling as the feeling washed over him like ocean waves. And there was Will now - or at least he supposed it was him - in attire of various shades of lack of colour, making him look somewhat like an extra from the Matrix. Brendon smirked, and blew out a perfect ring of smoke, inviting him for their usual greeting kiss. But as soon as the gas left his mouth, he started to realise that something wasn’t quite right. Not quite right at all...
There had been something wrong with that last drink, he knew it. Brendon knew his alcohol goddamnit, and he knew that bitter taste on the back of his tongue. That bastard must have put something in it. Oh fuck. Frightened, he tried to call out, something, anything, but his mouth wouldn’t move quite fast enough to form the words and he felt himself falling to the greasy floor.
And then, strong arms were around him, holding him, stroking his hair, running down his hips, moist lips were ravaging his mouth - and that was when Brendon realised that no way in hell was this Will. Panicking desperately, he tried to lash out, hit that fucker right where it hurt, but his limbs were beginning to lose all controllable feeling, causing his fear to escalate rapidly. The stranger picked up his sedated form, cradling him in his arms like an infant, and Brendon watched in horror as he placed a thick wad of bills on the bar counter next to Brendon’s empty glass. The...glass! Brendon gritted his teeth, (his adrenalin cancelling out some of the effects of the drug it seemed) and lunged with all his might, lifting it and smashing it down, hard and fast, on the stranger’s head.
He felt droplets of blood splatter across his face as the bastard screamed and screamed, clutching his skull in agony, but he didn’t stay to watch the light show. Brendon stumbled - God knows where to - sobbing and murmuring, “Oh God, oh God...” under his breath.
But he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t do it any more. He could feel his legs collapsing beneath him seconds before he fell, landing sprawled out across the damp pavement with a force that he couldn’t feel, but he imagined would bruise. Fuck. Shit. Phone. Phone...
He fumbled in his pocket, crying softly for once at the lack of feeling. Eventually he grasped the thin metal, shakingly pressed the three keys that he knew would bring him salvation...
And that’s when he saw Will’s body. And his vocal chords were brought to life as he screamed and screamed, without realising that he was pinpointing his exact location. In fact, he was almost glad for the darkness when it came, and the arms that lifted him from the ground to Hell where he belonged.
Fandom: RPS
Characters/Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (in later chapters). For now Brendon/*Religious*Pete lol
Prompt: Gluttony.
Word Count: 814
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Fake-ty fake, fake, fake.
Description: ‘...And his vocal chords were brought to life as he screamed and screamed, without realising that he was pinpointing his exact location...’
Author's Note: Thank you very much to everyone who commented! Sorry for the wait and hope you enjoy this chapter!
He sat alone at the grimy bar, waiting. An appealing location, only because it was just so unappealing. Waiting. Not a boy, not yet a man, although his imitation license told a different tale. He nodded, smirking, as the bartender passed him his - significantly past the point of counting now - next consumption, eyes lingering a little too long on his well-formed body for it to be simply coincidence.
They say you know you’re an alcoholic when you drink on your own, or when your sole reason for drinking is to get drunk. Brendon was an alcoholic. Amongst other things... Brendon was addicted to addiction; gloriously, face-down addicted to that sky-high feeling. When the falling could be mistaken for flying, and thinking was only discretionary. He lived, longing to forget who the fuck he actually was, just waiting for the next time he could escape to that wonderful place called his disillusioned mind.
The thing is, you don’t feel lonely when you’re drunk, high, stoned. Everything seems about three times more hilarious than it actually is; everyone wants to be your new best friend. But Brendon didn’t want to contemplate exactly why he did it, as the days and nights simply blurred into the next, one after another, one after another. He just knew that he did - probably always would - and that was all that mattered.
He looked down at his watch, squinting to read the undersized numbers. It was just like Will to be late. His...dealer, that was. His saviour, his messiah, the one who could give him those little pills, that white powder that made him forget what it meant to be alive... No doubt about it, Will had the power and Brendon would do anything for a tiny piece of that. Over and over again (no matter how much it hurt).
He took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, swore loudly when he saw he was down to his last one, and lit it with a sigh. He inhaled smoothly - so practised in his art - exhaled, closing his eyes and smiling as the feeling washed over him like ocean waves. And there was Will now - or at least he supposed it was him - in attire of various shades of lack of colour, making him look somewhat like an extra from the Matrix. Brendon smirked, and blew out a perfect ring of smoke, inviting him for their usual greeting kiss. But as soon as the gas left his mouth, he started to realise that something wasn’t quite right. Not quite right at all...
There had been something wrong with that last drink, he knew it. Brendon knew his alcohol goddamnit, and he knew that bitter taste on the back of his tongue. That bastard must have put something in it. Oh fuck. Frightened, he tried to call out, something, anything, but his mouth wouldn’t move quite fast enough to form the words and he felt himself falling to the greasy floor.
And then, strong arms were around him, holding him, stroking his hair, running down his hips, moist lips were ravaging his mouth - and that was when Brendon realised that no way in hell was this Will. Panicking desperately, he tried to lash out, hit that fucker right where it hurt, but his limbs were beginning to lose all controllable feeling, causing his fear to escalate rapidly. The stranger picked up his sedated form, cradling him in his arms like an infant, and Brendon watched in horror as he placed a thick wad of bills on the bar counter next to Brendon’s empty glass. The...glass! Brendon gritted his teeth, (his adrenalin cancelling out some of the effects of the drug it seemed) and lunged with all his might, lifting it and smashing it down, hard and fast, on the stranger’s head.
He felt droplets of blood splatter across his face as the bastard screamed and screamed, clutching his skull in agony, but he didn’t stay to watch the light show. Brendon stumbled - God knows where to - sobbing and murmuring, “Oh God, oh God...” under his breath.
But he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t do it any more. He could feel his legs collapsing beneath him seconds before he fell, landing sprawled out across the damp pavement with a force that he couldn’t feel, but he imagined would bruise. Fuck. Shit. Phone. Phone...
He fumbled in his pocket, crying softly for once at the lack of feeling. Eventually he grasped the thin metal, shakingly pressed the three keys that he knew would bring him salvation...
And that’s when he saw Will’s body. And his vocal chords were brought to life as he screamed and screamed, without realising that he was pinpointing his exact location. In fact, he was almost glad for the darkness when it came, and the arms that lifted him from the ground to Hell where he belonged.