Fic 34 of 100 for fanfic100 -- "Green"
Prompt 014 - Green.
Season One.
I have never written this style before. But I couldn't write it any other way. *shrugs*
Green
By Severina
* * *
You’re not sure exactly how you got here, since you have no memory of navigating the stairs to the bathroom. You do know that your shirt is rucked halfway up your back, and you think you should probably fix it, but your fingers are sort of useless right now and the tile feels blessedly cool on your exposed skin anyway. You watch detachedly at the feet that step over your splayed legs and amuse yourself by trying to figure out the ratio of loafers to Doc Martens, but you kind of lose count before the number reaches double digits. So you let your eyelids droop until only a slit of fluorescent light remains, and you rest your cheek against the leg of the sink.
It’s seconds, or maybe minutes, or possibly hours before you realize that one pair of shoes hasn’t just stepped over you and moved on; one pair is actually straddling your prone legs, and is wearing something that is by Berluti or Testoni or some other Italian designer that ends with i, and you open your eyes wide and--
“Justin!” Brian barks out.
He looks so tall, you have to tip your head allll the way back to see him looking... glaring... at you, and the grin splits your face because there is never a time when you’re not happy to see him. Even when he’s being a prick, though you can’t actually remember any prick-like moments right now.
“Hi!” you greet him, enthusiastic, like he’s your long lost brother, your missing best friend -- like he’s the only man in the world you will ever love.
Your fingers twitch to touch him, and you reach out to pinch the denim at his ankle, but then suddenly he’s there, bent over you, long fingers wrapped in the fabric of your t-shirt, hauling you to your feet. You struggle to get your balance, his face inches from yours.
“What did you take?” He spits out each word, and his fingers leave your shirt to dig into the meat of your bicep.
You want to tell him. How you were bored when he didn’t show up, and the music was lousy without him to dance with, and how some guy pulled you onto the dance floor and pushed against you and told you how sexy you are, how hot, hot much he wanted to take you home and fuck you. How you got angry, because you’d been thinking about Babylon all day, daydreaming about it during English class and you were not supposed to end up in anybody’s bed but his. But he didn’t show up, so you took the pill when some guy offered it. You want to tell him that it was tiny and green, so shiny that it looked like it had been dipped in shellac. It seemed to shimmer under the strobe lights, dancing in your palm, and you took it and held it on your tongue, thinking that it would melt and taste like candy cane, but instead it was bitter and foul. You swallowed it convulsively, like the meds you had to take when you were ten and cut your foot at the park and the doctor scared your mother with words like infection and tetanus.
You want to tell him all these things, because he’s watching you so intently... intensely... and you open your mouth and --
“It was green,” you tell him, nodding emphatically. When he rolls his eyes, you pluck at the button on his shirt to get his attention. “Green,” you repeat, slowly, and then you laugh, because it really was a pretty little pill.
Brian huffs a little, which makes you frown, but then he wraps his arm around your waist and that’s okay. You dig in your heels when he drags you to the door though, because that’s where the noise is, and the crowds, and some guy who sneered and flattened his palm on your chest and pushed you away when you started twirling on the dance floor, arms wide to catch the falling glitter.
“Justin,” he warns.
You shake your head, No No No; it seems to be the only thing you can do.
“Justin,” he says again, and then he’s pressed against you. The back of your head clunks against the wall, and at any other time it might hurt, but right now Brian’s fingers are stroking your jaw and he’s bending over you, eyes boring into yours, and even through your haze you can feel his hard-on throbbing against your thigh. You love that you can make him hard anytime. Anywhere.
“I’m taking you home,” he tells you.
You know that you’ll walk to his place, because he’ll want to watch you and he can’t do that in the jeep. You know that the weather report called for snow, and you would like to catch the flakes and feel their purity melt on your tongue. You know that later there will be lectures about never taking candy from strangers, but first there will be you spread under blue lights on Brian’s bed, his eyes raking over your body as you ride out the effects of that little pill, and then... then Brian will ride you, and you’ll let him call you a stupid little twat, you’ll let him demand anything, you’ll promise him almost anything as long as he keeps taking you home.
Brian releases his hold on you and your flesh tingles wherever it was touching his. In the background toilets flush and water runs into the sinks and disembodied voices talk about who they fucked and who they want to fuck and who they’ll never be able to fuck, but you only hear Brian.
“I’m taking you home,” he repeats slowly, and you watch the shape of his lips as he forms the words, the clenching of his jaw, the fire flashing in his eyes that just dares you to defy him.
“Okay,” you say.
Season One.
I have never written this style before. But I couldn't write it any other way. *shrugs*
Green
By Severina
* * *
You’re not sure exactly how you got here, since you have no memory of navigating the stairs to the bathroom. You do know that your shirt is rucked halfway up your back, and you think you should probably fix it, but your fingers are sort of useless right now and the tile feels blessedly cool on your exposed skin anyway. You watch detachedly at the feet that step over your splayed legs and amuse yourself by trying to figure out the ratio of loafers to Doc Martens, but you kind of lose count before the number reaches double digits. So you let your eyelids droop until only a slit of fluorescent light remains, and you rest your cheek against the leg of the sink.
It’s seconds, or maybe minutes, or possibly hours before you realize that one pair of shoes hasn’t just stepped over you and moved on; one pair is actually straddling your prone legs, and is wearing something that is by Berluti or Testoni or some other Italian designer that ends with i, and you open your eyes wide and--
“Justin!” Brian barks out.
He looks so tall, you have to tip your head allll the way back to see him looking... glaring... at you, and the grin splits your face because there is never a time when you’re not happy to see him. Even when he’s being a prick, though you can’t actually remember any prick-like moments right now.
“Hi!” you greet him, enthusiastic, like he’s your long lost brother, your missing best friend -- like he’s the only man in the world you will ever love.
Your fingers twitch to touch him, and you reach out to pinch the denim at his ankle, but then suddenly he’s there, bent over you, long fingers wrapped in the fabric of your t-shirt, hauling you to your feet. You struggle to get your balance, his face inches from yours.
“What did you take?” He spits out each word, and his fingers leave your shirt to dig into the meat of your bicep.
You want to tell him. How you were bored when he didn’t show up, and the music was lousy without him to dance with, and how some guy pulled you onto the dance floor and pushed against you and told you how sexy you are, how hot, hot much he wanted to take you home and fuck you. How you got angry, because you’d been thinking about Babylon all day, daydreaming about it during English class and you were not supposed to end up in anybody’s bed but his. But he didn’t show up, so you took the pill when some guy offered it. You want to tell him that it was tiny and green, so shiny that it looked like it had been dipped in shellac. It seemed to shimmer under the strobe lights, dancing in your palm, and you took it and held it on your tongue, thinking that it would melt and taste like candy cane, but instead it was bitter and foul. You swallowed it convulsively, like the meds you had to take when you were ten and cut your foot at the park and the doctor scared your mother with words like infection and tetanus.
You want to tell him all these things, because he’s watching you so intently... intensely... and you open your mouth and --
“It was green,” you tell him, nodding emphatically. When he rolls his eyes, you pluck at the button on his shirt to get his attention. “Green,” you repeat, slowly, and then you laugh, because it really was a pretty little pill.
Brian huffs a little, which makes you frown, but then he wraps his arm around your waist and that’s okay. You dig in your heels when he drags you to the door though, because that’s where the noise is, and the crowds, and some guy who sneered and flattened his palm on your chest and pushed you away when you started twirling on the dance floor, arms wide to catch the falling glitter.
“Justin,” he warns.
You shake your head, No No No; it seems to be the only thing you can do.
“Justin,” he says again, and then he’s pressed against you. The back of your head clunks against the wall, and at any other time it might hurt, but right now Brian’s fingers are stroking your jaw and he’s bending over you, eyes boring into yours, and even through your haze you can feel his hard-on throbbing against your thigh. You love that you can make him hard anytime. Anywhere.
“I’m taking you home,” he tells you.
You know that you’ll walk to his place, because he’ll want to watch you and he can’t do that in the jeep. You know that the weather report called for snow, and you would like to catch the flakes and feel their purity melt on your tongue. You know that later there will be lectures about never taking candy from strangers, but first there will be you spread under blue lights on Brian’s bed, his eyes raking over your body as you ride out the effects of that little pill, and then... then Brian will ride you, and you’ll let him call you a stupid little twat, you’ll let him demand anything, you’ll promise him almost anything as long as he keeps taking you home.
Brian releases his hold on you and your flesh tingles wherever it was touching his. In the background toilets flush and water runs into the sinks and disembodied voices talk about who they fucked and who they want to fuck and who they’ll never be able to fuck, but you only hear Brian.
“I’m taking you home,” he repeats slowly, and you watch the shape of his lips as he forms the words, the clenching of his jaw, the fire flashing in his eyes that just dares you to defy him.
“Okay,” you say.