Fic: Drifiting (NC-17) Cassidy Casablancas
Title: Drifting
Author: Sophia_bee
Pairing/Character: Cassidy “Beaver” Casablancas
Word Count: 1235
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Cassidy is a sad, sick kid. A short exploration of his inner thinking
Spoilers/Warnings: S2 finale, graphic imagery, language, dark themes
Author’s Note: X-posted to veronicamarsfic and fic_from_mars. My other writing can be found here
He stood on the corner wearing leather and see-through. The warm breeze off the ocean blew softly threw his hair as he inhaled the cool night air.
He liked girls. Except they never made his dick hard like the boys in the locker room. He never wanted them to fuck him until he could barely say his own name.
My name is Cassidy.
He would drink until he stopped shaking, until the booze made everything fuzzy and soft.
It’s liquid.
Pull on the tight pants, liking the way the leather felt, soft against the fine hairs of his thighs.
It’s courage.
The shirt was the sheer kind, clinging to his skinny chest. It itched a little but he liked the way it looked, the way it made him look older, or younger.
It’s liquid courage.
It wasn’t hard to sneak out. No one cared any way. No one ever had.
He’d tried to tell his dad once, sat in the big leather chair and looked across the massive solid walnut desk. His dad was on the phone to Beijing, another land deal, another high-rise. His voice was loud, booming through the room as he schmooze the man on the other end of the line. Cassidy’s hands were sweaty, he wiped them on his grass-stained jeans. He went over the words in his head, tried to find a way to tell his dad that the nice man, the one with the big smile and the crisp Howdy-Doody shirts had touched him….
“I’m busy Cassidy.”
Big Dick lived up to his name on a regular basis. Loud, boisterous, an asshole. He dismissed his quivering son with the wave of hand.
He learned to like it, learned to lean into the clammy hand in his crotch, learned to crave the hot breath against his face.
No one cares for you like this. No one loves you but me.
What other choice did he have?
He dreamed of ten-year-old revenge, poisoned peanut butter sandwiches and baseballs exploding in puffs of smoke. Over the years the dreams became older: explosions, bits and pieces of everyone he’d ever hated. They never knew what hit them.
Cassidy had his favorite corner, standing in the cool night, twitching his hips in a way that made them know he was there to play the game. He licked his lips, lancing at their faces behind their windshields, his kohl lined eyes inviting them to come hither, inviting them to come….
They were sweaty old men in suits that smelled like cigarettes and bourbon, young men in khaki pleated dressy casual and bags of groceries in their back seats. He would leap in their passenger seats, direct them to a dark, deserted street, unzip their pants, his hand finding their hard dick, his eyes watching their faces go slack.
He didn’t use the money. It was tucked away in a cigar box, hidden in the back of the bathroom cupboard. He didn’t want the money. He just wanted someone to want him.
He liked the feel of the gun, the way it was heavy in his hand. He dreamed of using it, of leveling it at Kendall’s stupid Barbie head and pulling the trigger. Bang. She deflated like the blow up dolls in the windows of the sex shops down at the Neptune strip, their expressionless faces painted in permanent looks of surprise, mouths wide open and waiting. He dreamed of making Dick finally listen to his little brother, the way the gun would crash against the side of his head. He dreamed of making Woody pay, and pay, and pay, one bullet after the other.
He tried normal. It fit like an itchy wool suit on Easter morning. But he tried it, thought if he pretended enough it might be come real.
Mac was nice, smiley. He liked how he felt with her, the way she looked at him like he was a human being. She had funky colored hair and smelled really nice when he held her close. She talked about smart things and loved vegetarian pizza and playing games on her computer. That where it began and ended with Mac.
He never dreamed about blowing her away. Maybe he was becoming normal.
She wanted to fuck him so he tried to imagine it, the way it would feel to sink his dick into her softness, the way her ragged and bitten fingernails would scratch across his back, her voice whisper his name in his ear. He sat on his bed, dick in his hand, trying with everything he had to get off as he pictured her face.
It never worked.
He felt strung out, tripping through his days on the edge of some great abyss that threatened to swallow him up. Everything around him was too bright, unbearable in comparison to the blackness around the edges of his vision that threatened to swallow him whole.
My name is Cassidy.
He knew it would end that night, although he lied to himself as he ran up the stairwell to the roof. Told himself that he could do this to, get rid of annoying Veronica Mars and walk away with no blood on his hands.
He didn’t know how it would end, that the last thing he would feel was the cool breeze of the ocean caressing his face as he asked what he was worth, asked the two stricken faces that gaped at him in silence to tell him there was something worth living for. They couldn’t answer him. There was no answer. Because he’d never been worth something in the first place.
No one would be sad to see the skinny, sad kid slip off the edge of the earth. Not Mac. Not after the way he left her shivering in the hotel room, her makeup streaked down her face, paralyzed with fear and shame. Not Dick. Not Veronica, especially after he left her flesh quivering with electricity, eyes filled with sorrow for he poor dead daddy.
If he couldn’t have a daddy, no one could have a daddy: at least not the kind that loved you and rocked you to sleep after nightmares and took you to baseball games. The only daddy Cassidy would ever have was the kind that bounded you on his lap until his body started to stiffen and he started to moan quietly as his hand slipped under your shirt. The only daddy he would have was the kind that cared more about everyone and everything except his own son.
Fuck you, Veronica Mars. Fuck you, world.
He knew it would end there as he stood on the edge and asked them for a reason to make a different decision. One reason to step away from the edge.
They said nothing, staring at the poor, pathetic boy as he stepped away into darkness.
The last thing her felt was the soft wind caressing his cheek, the feel of his stomach churning like when he went on carnival rides, his hands sticky with cotton candy as he held on to the safety bar for dear life. Maybe it was like the funny feeling you get after your first kiss, or at least what he thought it might feel like since Woody had stolen that from him too. It was the first thing in a long time that felt real.
Cassidy closed his eyes and finally let himself drift away.
Fin
Author: Sophia_bee
Pairing/Character: Cassidy “Beaver” Casablancas
Word Count: 1235
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Cassidy is a sad, sick kid. A short exploration of his inner thinking
Spoilers/Warnings: S2 finale, graphic imagery, language, dark themes
Author’s Note: X-posted to veronicamarsfic and fic_from_mars. My other writing can be found here
He stood on the corner wearing leather and see-through. The warm breeze off the ocean blew softly threw his hair as he inhaled the cool night air.
He liked girls. Except they never made his dick hard like the boys in the locker room. He never wanted them to fuck him until he could barely say his own name.
My name is Cassidy.
He would drink until he stopped shaking, until the booze made everything fuzzy and soft.
It’s liquid.
Pull on the tight pants, liking the way the leather felt, soft against the fine hairs of his thighs.
It’s courage.
The shirt was the sheer kind, clinging to his skinny chest. It itched a little but he liked the way it looked, the way it made him look older, or younger.
It’s liquid courage.
It wasn’t hard to sneak out. No one cared any way. No one ever had.
He’d tried to tell his dad once, sat in the big leather chair and looked across the massive solid walnut desk. His dad was on the phone to Beijing, another land deal, another high-rise. His voice was loud, booming through the room as he schmooze the man on the other end of the line. Cassidy’s hands were sweaty, he wiped them on his grass-stained jeans. He went over the words in his head, tried to find a way to tell his dad that the nice man, the one with the big smile and the crisp Howdy-Doody shirts had touched him….
“I’m busy Cassidy.”
Big Dick lived up to his name on a regular basis. Loud, boisterous, an asshole. He dismissed his quivering son with the wave of hand.
He learned to like it, learned to lean into the clammy hand in his crotch, learned to crave the hot breath against his face.
No one cares for you like this. No one loves you but me.
What other choice did he have?
He dreamed of ten-year-old revenge, poisoned peanut butter sandwiches and baseballs exploding in puffs of smoke. Over the years the dreams became older: explosions, bits and pieces of everyone he’d ever hated. They never knew what hit them.
Cassidy had his favorite corner, standing in the cool night, twitching his hips in a way that made them know he was there to play the game. He licked his lips, lancing at their faces behind their windshields, his kohl lined eyes inviting them to come hither, inviting them to come….
They were sweaty old men in suits that smelled like cigarettes and bourbon, young men in khaki pleated dressy casual and bags of groceries in their back seats. He would leap in their passenger seats, direct them to a dark, deserted street, unzip their pants, his hand finding their hard dick, his eyes watching their faces go slack.
He didn’t use the money. It was tucked away in a cigar box, hidden in the back of the bathroom cupboard. He didn’t want the money. He just wanted someone to want him.
He liked the feel of the gun, the way it was heavy in his hand. He dreamed of using it, of leveling it at Kendall’s stupid Barbie head and pulling the trigger. Bang. She deflated like the blow up dolls in the windows of the sex shops down at the Neptune strip, their expressionless faces painted in permanent looks of surprise, mouths wide open and waiting. He dreamed of making Dick finally listen to his little brother, the way the gun would crash against the side of his head. He dreamed of making Woody pay, and pay, and pay, one bullet after the other.
He tried normal. It fit like an itchy wool suit on Easter morning. But he tried it, thought if he pretended enough it might be come real.
Mac was nice, smiley. He liked how he felt with her, the way she looked at him like he was a human being. She had funky colored hair and smelled really nice when he held her close. She talked about smart things and loved vegetarian pizza and playing games on her computer. That where it began and ended with Mac.
He never dreamed about blowing her away. Maybe he was becoming normal.
She wanted to fuck him so he tried to imagine it, the way it would feel to sink his dick into her softness, the way her ragged and bitten fingernails would scratch across his back, her voice whisper his name in his ear. He sat on his bed, dick in his hand, trying with everything he had to get off as he pictured her face.
It never worked.
He felt strung out, tripping through his days on the edge of some great abyss that threatened to swallow him up. Everything around him was too bright, unbearable in comparison to the blackness around the edges of his vision that threatened to swallow him whole.
My name is Cassidy.
He knew it would end that night, although he lied to himself as he ran up the stairwell to the roof. Told himself that he could do this to, get rid of annoying Veronica Mars and walk away with no blood on his hands.
He didn’t know how it would end, that the last thing he would feel was the cool breeze of the ocean caressing his face as he asked what he was worth, asked the two stricken faces that gaped at him in silence to tell him there was something worth living for. They couldn’t answer him. There was no answer. Because he’d never been worth something in the first place.
No one would be sad to see the skinny, sad kid slip off the edge of the earth. Not Mac. Not after the way he left her shivering in the hotel room, her makeup streaked down her face, paralyzed with fear and shame. Not Dick. Not Veronica, especially after he left her flesh quivering with electricity, eyes filled with sorrow for he poor dead daddy.
If he couldn’t have a daddy, no one could have a daddy: at least not the kind that loved you and rocked you to sleep after nightmares and took you to baseball games. The only daddy Cassidy would ever have was the kind that bounded you on his lap until his body started to stiffen and he started to moan quietly as his hand slipped under your shirt. The only daddy he would have was the kind that cared more about everyone and everything except his own son.
Fuck you, Veronica Mars. Fuck you, world.
He knew it would end there as he stood on the edge and asked them for a reason to make a different decision. One reason to step away from the edge.
They said nothing, staring at the poor, pathetic boy as he stepped away into darkness.
The last thing her felt was the soft wind caressing his cheek, the feel of his stomach churning like when he went on carnival rides, his hands sticky with cotton candy as he held on to the safety bar for dear life. Maybe it was like the funny feeling you get after your first kiss, or at least what he thought it might feel like since Woody had stolen that from him too. It was the first thing in a long time that felt real.
Cassidy closed his eyes and finally let himself drift away.
Fin