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Published : 4 months, 2 weeks ago (Wed, 16 Jul 2008 19:31:06 PDT)
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Title: You Write Such Pretty Words, But Lifes No Storybook
Author: ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) repulsive_x
Rating: R for sexual content & heavy alcohol and drug use
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross
POV: 2nd (Brendon's)
Summary: You know Ryan’s a junkie, and possibly even a whore and somewhere deep down in your conscious you know you should have never gotten into any of this, that Ryan is just bad news. You’re the well-off, band boy from California, who vowed to never try any type of drug in your life. But, now - now, you’re already so far in, you had been since your eyes first connected with Ryan’s, five hours ago in the smoky, loud club.
Disclaimer: This is all completely, totally and 100% fake. Title and storyline taken from Lover, I Dont Have to Love by Bright Eyes.
Beta: Bec, bilvy_lover
I picked you out of a crowd and talked to you
I said I liked your shoes
You said, "Thanks, can I follow you?"
So it's up the stairs and out of view
No prying eyes
I poured some wine
I asked your name, you asked the time
Now it's two o'clock
The club is closed
We're up the block
Your hands on me; Pressing hard against your jeans
Your tongue in my mouth, trying to keep the words from coming out
You didn't care to know who else may have been you before
I want a lover I don't have to love
I want a girl who's too sad to give a fuck
Where's the kid with the chemicals?
I thought he said to meet him here but I'm not sure
I've got the money if you've got the time
You said it feels good
I said, "I'll give it a try."
Then my mind went dark
We both forgot where your car was parked
Let's just take the train
I'll meet up with the band in the morning
Bad actors with bad habits
Some sad singers they just play tragic
And the phone's ringing and the van's leaving
Let's just keep touching; let's just keep... keep singing...
I want a lover I don't have to love
I want a boy who's so drunk he doesn't talk
Where's the kid with the chemicals?
I've got a hunger and I can't seem to get full
I need some meaning I can memorize
The kind I have always seems to slip my mind
But you, but you...
You write such pretty words
But life's no storybook
Love's an excuse to get hurt
And to hurt.
Do you like to hurt?
I do, I do
Then hurt me...
- - x - -
You’re in a city you’ve never been to, at a club you’ve never seen, but somehow, you still feel like you’ve been here thousands of times before, standing in this exact spot, surrounded by these exact people, but you know you haven’t.
There’s the same smell, the smell of smoke, and alcohol, and sweat. The music is loud, almost unbearable as it pounds into your skull. Sex lingers, thick in the sticky air.
This is the kind of club that’s taken over by the scene kids, and the groupies. The alcoholics and the drug addicts. The hippies and the underage. Every single venue your band has ever played at has always been exactly like this.
You’re being hit on by the same type of girl, the one you get hit on after every set you’ve ever played. You don’t think you’d even be that surprised if it was the same girl. She’s the one with the too-short skirt, the too-high heels and the too-blonde hair. Her hands, with chipped black nails, are resting on your forearm, digging into your damp t-shirt. When she giggles, she throws her head back, her bottle blonde hair trickling down her back.
You look away, through the slutty girls, the drunken boys, the pulsing crowd, and your eyes land on something. Someone. Some boy.
You can feel the girl’s small hand move further up your arm, across your chest. Her body pressing close to yours, her breasts flush against your chest, but you can’t look away. You’re transfixed.
Then, it’s like he can feel you looking at him from across the room, and the boy turns, his gaze catching yours. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t blink. He burns holes into yours from across the crowded club.
Despite the heat of the room, you shiver.
The girl is now talking low and sexy into your ear, but you’re far too lost in the boy sitting across the room that you can’t hear a word she’s saying, and you honestly, don’t really care all that much either. You’re pretty sure you have an idea what it is anyway.
You tear yourself away from her grip without so much as a thought, and it crosses your mind, as you make your way through the sweaty crowd, that you have just given up on possibly, the easiest lay of your life. You don’t give a shit though, because you’re not even sure that you like girls in the first place, and as previously stated, all you really care about right now is the boy seated at the bar, empty shot glass in hand.
You don’t feel bad about leaving her there with a confused look plastered on her painted-on face either. No, you never do, because you know it will only be a matter of minutes before she moves onto the next band member, and rubs her huge, most likely implanted tits up against them just like she had to you.
You know she’ll have better luck with them anyway. They always do.
You’re gaze still hasn’t broken with the boy, not even for a second. The connection is so strong between the two of you, that you think that surely, everyone in the club must feel it too.
You sit down on the wooden barstool next to him, and you barely lift your eyes off his soft, honey-colored ones as you wave the bartender over, and order the both of you drinks.
Words still have yet to be spoken when the bartender places your beverages in front of you. You just sit there, and drink, and watch, eyes locked. Now that you’re close up, you can see just how strikingly beautiful he really is. You faintly wonder how he could possibly be alone in a place like this.
It’s weird, you think, that you don’t feel extremely uncomfortable, if at all, as you sit here, staring at this boy you don’t know, not speaking. It doesn’t make sense, and you don’t know why it is, but it actually almost feels like this is the most comfort you’ve experienced in a long time, and that worries you. But, this boy, he doesn’t seem strange to you, and he doesn’t feel like a stranger either. It’s almost like you know him, even though you are certain, you don’t.
You would remember a face like his.
Regardless, you finally lean forward a bit, closer to the boy and ask, “Do I know you from somewhere?”
He doesn’t answer, he only sends you a short, secretive smile, and takes a tiny sip from his drink, eyes watching you from overtop of his glass. When he sets it back onto the wooden, bar table, he tucks a strand of golden brown hair behind his ear, wait’s a moment then says, calm and natural, “I like your shoes.”
You’re amazed that his voice even seems to holds beauty.
You frown, a little taken back, frowning down at your beaten-up, checkered Vans. You take a moment, and then say, with some wit, voice smooth and deep, “Thanks, can I follow you?”
He smiles, a soft laugh passing through his lips. You swear, you almost see some lust hidden in the twist of his soft, pink lips.
He chugs back the rest of his drink, stands up and holds one, slender, boney hand out for you to take. You don’t ask any questions as you slide your fingers into his, and all you can think about is how they seem to fit perfectly together. You think that maybe, your hands were made for each other.
You look at each other for a second more, before he’s pulling you through the crowd, hand gripped tightly in his. He pulls you up a flight of stairs, the music fading behind you, but you can still feel it pulsing under your feet.
Booths are tucked along the wall, intimate in the dim light. You expect the boy to bring you to one, but instead, he leads you towards a closed door where two big, burly men stand guard.
Their eyes land on you first, looking you up and down, scrutinizing, and you try not to shake under their gaze. They barely give a second glance to the small boy attached to your hand before their nodding, and stepping away to open the large, iron doors for you.
The boy barely gives a second glance to what’s going on around you, from the sex taking place, right down to the people snorting coke and god knows what else right off the glass tables through hundred dollar bills. You, on the other hand, are transfixed.
He leads you to one of the only empty booths, tucked in the back corner of the room, and sits down, sliding over for you to join.
The thought suddenly crosses your mind that you could have easily just picked up a hooker without knowing it.
You’re still quiet as he reaches across the table for the expensive bottle of champagne, and two glasses. You sit, and wait, watching for any signs to show that he is, in fact, a prostitute. Fortunately, you see nothing so far.
He pours the drinks, still completely oblivious to your astonishment as you look around the room, eyes wide.
He pulls the champagne glass to his lips, and takes a tiny, experimental sip, watching you with amusement flashing in his honey eyes. “What?” he finally asks. “You’ve never seen sex before, kid?”
You instantly tear your eyes away from the quite raunchy sex act going on between two men. Or rather, what you assume is a boy, who is almost too young - maybe even younger than yourself - with a man who could probably be the age of his father. You look back at the boy, face burning, “N-No, it’s just…”
He smirks, finishing off the rest of the almost crystal clear liquid in his glass, then places it back onto the table, next to your full one. Noticing this, you pick it up, forcing yourself not to look back around the room as you sip from the sweet drink. However, you do allow yourself to look at the boy from the corner of your eye, and you’re pretty sure, you still have yet to find a single flaw on his face. “How old are you?” you ask, because he looks so young, but yet, so old at the same time that you really can’t even begin to guess.
He licks the champagne off his bottom lip, and locks his eyes back into yours. You wait for him to answer, but minutes pass by, and he still says nothing so you decide to let it go for now.
You place your empty glass onto the table, sneaking a quick glance around the room again. You attempt another question, because really, you just want to hear his voice, “You come here a lot?”
He shrugs, that secretive smile appearing back on his lips. “Maybe.”
You are now, almost positive that the rest of your time will be spent like this. In a way, you almost don’t mind, because you think you’d be content with just staring at him for the rest of your life, however, you want to know everything possible about this boy, things that his eyes can’t tell. You want to be close to him, closer than you have ever been with anyone else, even if it’s just for this one night.
“I really like your band,” he says, breaking your thoughts. “You have an incredible voice.”
You blush, just like you do whenever anyone compliments you - never mind, from a beautiful boy like him. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He nods, and pours himself another drink as his eyes skim across the room, lingering no longer than a few seconds at a time.
There’s a small dance floor, neon lights blinking down onto it, the only dances being a few girls, in short skirts and bra’s, rubbing up against each other.
You notice besides yourself, everyone else is in their own little world, with their own people. No one even spares a glance in your direction. You think, you might as well not even exist.
“I’m Brendon,” you say, looking back at the boy, deciding to make yet another attempt at a question. “What’s your name?”
Again, you receive no reply. He just looks at you for a moment, and you use this time to try and read his expression, but you don’t get anything. It’s blank, and dull, and almost dead. What you do notice though, is that his eyes are endless, like they’ve seen so much in so little time. You realize it’s his eyes that make him seem old.
You’re not going to lie though, you’re starting to feel a little irritated by the fact that this boy can’t seem to answer a simple question, even if his life depended on it.
His eyes shift down to your wrist where a thin, black watch rests. “What time is it?” he asks.
You’re confused, and still, also quite irritated, but you look down and answer anyway. “About quarter to two.”
He swishes the rest of the clear liquid around in the fragile glass, thoughtful, as he states, “The club closes at two.”
You feel your stomach sink as you realize that in fifteen, short minutes; you might never see this boy again. “Oh, yeah, right.” You try not to sound too disappointed, but you know you fail terribly.
He smiles warmly, and surprisingly, he’s the one to ask something, “Where do you live?”
You really consider not answering, just like he had done to you, but you quickly decide against it and reply, “L.A.” You pause, and then decide to try and ask back, “Do you live here in Vegas?”
You expect him to look away, with a secretive smile on those thin lips, but instead he nods, and it’s short and barely there, but you catch it. He gulps back the rest of his drink, and looks you straight in the eyes. “We should probably go before they start kicking people out. It takes forever, and I have to meet a friend.” By the way he says it, you know he isn’t just a friend. He pauses for a moment, then adds, “that is, if you can or do you need to get back to your band?”
You think this over for a moment, and you know you probably do, but you nod anyways. “Yeah, I’ve got some time.”
He smiles, but this time it’s not so secretive, and it makes you grin back.
In minutes, you’re outside, hands intertwined once again, and you don’t even find it weird in even the slightest bit that you only met that night, and have only exchanged a few words on top of that.
The boy licks his lips, and leads you down the street. You have no idea where you’re going, and you don’t ask, because you don’t suspect he would answer anyway.
You notice you’re a tad wobbly at the knees, and you can’t seem to walk in a straight line even when you try. The drinks from before your set and the champagne after seemed to have affected you more than you had expected they would. The boy attached to your hand, doesn’t even look the least bit tipsy, and you feel a little ashamed.
Before you know it, you’re being tugged into an empty alley, pushed up against a wall, and a pair of warm lips are devouring yours.
You’re far too shocked to react at first, but once you realize that the nameless, gorgeous boy is, in fact, the one attached to your lips, you slowly begin to kiss him back, moving your plump lips against his. Soon enough, you’re kissing, long and hard, the kind of kisses you’d expect to be exchanged between two lovers, not two, young boys that had just met only an hour earlier.
You’re panting hard against each others lips, and his slender hands are pressing against the front of your jeans. You manage to snake a single arm around his waist, pulling him closer into you, as you click your tongue along his, tasting him. He tastes sweet, just like the champagne.
You can hear people pass by at the adjoining sidewalk, the one you had just been pulled from, but you don’t care. You just continue to kiss him, your moans getting lost in each others mouths.
He pulls away, just as quickly as he had started, wipes his mouth and stares hard at you. You stare back, confused and panting hard against the cold, brick wall.
“My names Ryan,” he says simply. “I’m twenty-one.”
You nod, almost not believing it. Minus the eyes, he barely looks eighteen, never mind twenty-one. “I’m twenty,” you say between hard breaths.
Ryan faintly nods, looking less than interested and walks off, back to the sidewalk without another word. You take a deep breath, smoothing out your shirt and running your hands through your matted hair before reluctantly joining him. He takes a hold of your hand again, and you start back down the sidewalk, like none of that had just happened.
With every minute that passes, you’re getting more and more confused by him. However, at the same time, you couldn’t be more intrigued.
You walk for what seems like miles, and you’re back to complete silence. When Ryan finally stops, you’re standing on a street corner. You count to ten before asking, “What are we doing?”
Ryan looks up, almost startled, like he had forgotten you were there the whole time. “We’re waiting for my friend,” he explains, simply, face illuminated by the dim streetlight.
Then, you’re back to silence as Ryan faintly runs his thumb along yours. After a few good, ten minutes of stand there, he bites his lip, and looks down the abandoned street. “Where is he?” he mutters under his breath. “I thought he said to meet me here but, I’m not sure…” he jiggles his left knee, and moves some wispy hair from his eyes.
You follow his gaze down the street. “Who is he exactly?”
Ryan’s fingers wrap tighter around yours, but he doesn’t answer. Finally, five minutes later, an expensive looking car slides up in front of you. Ryan’s fingers immediately slip from yours. “Wait here, alright?” He moves towards the car, sticking his head into the open passenger window.
You do as you were asked, and stay in your spot, hands stuffed in your hoodie pockets. Ryan’s talking too softly for you to hear a word. A few minutes later, he stands up straight again, opening the back door and turns to you, motioning for you to follow. “Come on.”
“Uh…”
Ryan smiles gently. “Trust me,” he says. “It’ll only be a few minutes.”
You’re hesitant, but then, you finally nod as Ryan climbs into the backseat, and you follow him in. The second the door closes behind you, the car speeds off down the street.
From what you can see, the man in the front is quite muscular. His face is unshaven, and his cornrows are tucked into one of those big, gangster caps. His skins darker, and he looks older, you guess somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties. His eyes are dark and piercing, and you’re almost frightened.
You look over at Ryan, who seems at complete ease, so you force yourself to relax a little.
“Got my money?” the man asks voice gruff.
“Yes,” Ryan says, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a few wrinkled bills and presses it into his open hand.
The man counts the money, eyes switching from the road to the bills. You’re back to wondering if Ryan’s a whore, and maybe this man is his pimp. It would only make sense, because from what you can see, it is an awful lot of money he had just handed over.
He pulls into a back lane, and turns off the ignition. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out two plastic baggies and shoves them into Ryan’s hand. “Thanks,” he says quietly. He turns to you, twirling the bag in front of your face. “You want some?”
You frown, eyeing the white pills sitting at the bottom of the bag. “Uh… I-I don’t have any money, sorry,” you lie, face burning.
He shrugs, and sends you a knowing smile. “I’ve got the money if you’ve got the time.”
You almost consider telling him you haven’t got he time, and that you had forgotten you had to be back with the band and leave immediately. On the other hand, you don’t want to leave and never see Ryan again. You want to spend the longest amount of time you possibly can with him, you’re not just about to run away from the most beautiful creature you have ever laid eyes on. “What is it?”
The man in the front snorts, and you feel yourself blush even more, but you force yourself to ignore it. Ryan sends you a small smirk that is so unbelievably sexy it makes your cock literally ache, and says, “It feels good.” You’re even more hesitant now, and Ryan must sense this because he leans forward, and purrs into your ear, “Trust me, Bren.” Just for good measures, he rests a solid hand on your thigh.
You’re face is on fire now, and you shift your gaze from Ryan’s hand, to him, to the bag and then up to the rearview mirror to where the man is staring back at you, eyes cold. You have never done drugs in your life, and you promised yourself back in high school that you wouldn’t either. Ever. However, you have never been offered them by a boy as gorgeous as Ryan either. “I’ll give it a try, I guess,” you say, sighing and you’re stomach sinks with guilt.
Ryan smiles, the biggest smile that you have seen grace his lips so far that night, and reach down under the leather seat, pulling out a bottle of alcohol. He picks two pills out from the bag and hands them to you, along with the vodka.
You stare down at it, biting your lip uneasily. “How do I know you’re not just trying to kill me?”
He laughs, and catches your eyes, his own sparkling. “I’ll do it first if you’d like, if that’d make you feel better.”
You nod, and Ryan takes the bottle back from your hand, along with three pills from the bag and pops them all into his mouth at once, washing them down with a long swig of alcohol. He wipes his mouth, and grins, opening wide to show you his empty mouth. “See? It’s all good. I’m not trying to kill you.” He presses his warm body against yours, whispering into your ear, “You’re far too pretty to kill.”
You feel your whole body light on fire with that, and you swear you’re going to pop a boner at any given moment. You look up to see the dark eyes of the man, still staring intensely back at you. You shiver as you feel Ryan pull away, and you take the bottle from his hand, tearing your eyes away from the rearview mirror. You slowly place the two pills onto the tip of your tongue, and take an ever slower sip from the bottle, regretting it before they even slide all the way down your throat, but you don’t stop.
Fucking peer pressure from beautiful boys and scary men.
The man lights a joint, and takes a hit before passing it to Ryan, who gladly takes it, bringing the tightly rolled joint to his lips. He looks at you as he inhales and now, you can clearly see the lust swimming in the pools of his eyes. Or maybe, he’s just horny as hell and would look that way at anyone at this point in time - or worse yet, anytime. You decide to stick with the former.
He takes the joint from in between his lips, leans forward, letting his lips linger only centimeters away from yours as he blows out, letting the sweet smoke fill your mouth.
You subconsciously inhale Ryan’s secondhand smoke, letting it fill your lungs, then exhale, coughing a bit along with it. You look to see the man staring even more intently at you two now, and your throat and lungs burn.
Ryan passes the joint to you, and you look down at it, unsure. You look back up at Ryan, as if looking for reassurance, which he kindly does by giving you a small nod, along with a comforting smile.
You slowly bring it up to your lips, sucking in as much as you can. Fortunately, you’ve had a few cigarettes in your lifetime, so you don’t have a complete coughing fit and die, but you still manage to cough quite a bit and make quite a fool out of yourself.
Ryan quickly takes the joint from in between your fingers and hands it to the scary man in the front, before he slowly starts to rub small circles onto your back. Then, before you have a chance to think, his lips are brushing against your ear, his hot breath dancing down your neck. You’re coughing soon comes to a stop, and you turn to look at Ryan, you’re eyes only connecting for a moment before Ryan’s lips are pressing back down onto yours with even more force than earlier in the cold back lane.
A soft moan escapes your lips, and your hand reaches for Ryan’s smooth neck, pulling him closer, the man upfront completely passing your mind because you have never felt this good in your whole entire fucking life.
Ryan’s hand begins to slide up the front of your shirt, running his boney fingers along your stomach then up to your bare chest, brushing against your nipple. His tongue is already running smoothly against yours as he slides his hand back down your scrawny stomach, down to your brass buckle.
You want to stop. Your mind is screaming at you to as Ryan begins to undo your belt, his lips trailing down your jaw, but you can’t find it in you to stop him. It just feels too damn good.
You can feel the man boring holes into you, and you slide one eye half-open to see him, sure enough, turned all the way in his seat now, staring at the two of you, obviously not content on looking through the small rearview mirror anymore.
Ryan’s hand slides gracefully down into your boxers, and this is when you finally manage to stop him, resting your palms flat on his chest, and shoving him away lightly but still with some force, causing him to pry his lips away from your neck. “Ry…” he pants.
“What?” He follows your gaze to the front of the car, where the man is leaning so far out of his seat he’s practically in the back with you. “Oh,” he says, flatly, flailing his wrist like it’s no big deal, and then leans into kiss you again. “Don’t worry about Travie, he’s a good guy. He only wants to watch,” he breathes huskily into your lips.
You moan inwardly at his voice, feeling yourself harden just the tiniest bit.
“Uh…” you start, clearing your throat, and you’re really, really not sure about this, but Ryan’s already pushing you back down against the leather seat, tongue plunging back into your mouth. Your eyes are still open, and you can see Travis staring. It feels awkward but you can no longer find any ounce of willpower left to stop Ryan, whose hands are back in your pants, down into your boxers.
You let your eyes fall shut, and you moan as Ryan fully grips onto your length, stroking you gently. Your brain is beginning to feel fuzzier and fuzzier by the second, and you swear its turning to mush and about to leak out of your ears. What Ryan is doing is just the most amazing thing he has ever experienced in his life, and you have had countless of hand jobs before in your life, none of which were even close to being this spectacular. Soon enough, you’ve forgotten about Travis completely.
“Take off your shirt,” Ryan demands breathlessly, and you don’t need to be told twice before your pulling it over your head with Ryan’s hands still in your pants. He slides them out to tear off his own shirt, and instantly presses his lips and teeth to your chest.
You let out another throaty moan and Ryan sits up, straddling your hips. You whimper from the loss of contact, and slide your eyes open to see Ryan pulling the smaller baggy out from his back pocket. He looks down at you and says, “Stay still, alright?”
“What’re you doing?”
He gives you another secretive smile, and opens the baggy, pouring some of the white powder out onto your abdomen. Great, not only are you high, but now you’re letting someone snort coke off you.
Of course Ryan’s a junkie, no one could possibly be as perfect as you had first thought.
What have you gotten yourself into?
Travis silently holds out a credit card for Ryan, and he takes it instantly, separating the pile into two thin lines. You have to force yourself from either a) laughing or b) having an orgasm right there at the feeling. You had never thought powder could feel that amazing on your skin.
You just want Travis to go away so you can have sex with Ryan right then and there, in the backseat, all over the expensive leather. Although, he’s honestly getting to the point where he doesn’t care if Travis is there or not.
Once Ryan’s done, he hands the card back to Travis, plugs one nostril and bends down, snorting one thick line up at once. You can’t help but giggle, which earns you a smack on the thigh from Ryan. He sits up, tilting his face up to the car ceiling, snorting back what was left in his nostril.
You lay there impatiently, your dick growing more and more irritated by the second, and the clear view of Ryan’s naked chest in front of you isn’t making it any better. You’re tempted to pin him down and trace your tongue over those prominent hipbones of his.
Ryan snorts up the last line, and this time you’re allowed to giggle. Ryan does the same thing as before, tilting his head up, but this time he lets out a loud moan. You feel yourself become even harder from the sound.
When Ryan leans back down, he runs his tongue along your flat stomach, licking off the remnants of the drug. He goes back to kissing you, running his tongue along yours and you notice he doesn’t taste quite so sweet anymore. “Want some?” he asks, panting lightly. He trails his fingers back down your stomach and murmurs, “You can do the same to me.”
You stare up at him, his pupils seeming to take up his whole eye, which makes you vaguely wonder what your own eyes look like right now. You’re almost a little tempted by the idea actually, but you decide against it, figuring your high enough, and shake your head. “Maybe later.”
Ryan nods. He takes your bottom lip in between his teeth and scrapes his nails along your chest, hard enough to make you bleed. For some reason, you don’t feel pain, no, only pleasure. Intense pleasure. Ryan presses his hips hard against yours, and you grunt, hips arching back into his.
Ryan’s lips linger to your ear as he whispers throatily, “You’re so fucking hot.”
You moan, and Ryan kisses down your body, stopping at the opening of your pants. Your eyes slide open and immediately look to Travis.
You stare at him, eyes half-lidded. Ryan pulls down your jeans and boxers. Travis licks his lips.
You’re still so disturbed by the whole thing, but before you can even try to stop him, Ryan’s tongue makes contact with your tip, running smoothly along it. You groan, hips arching into his mouth, eyes falling shut. Ryan takes all of you into his mouth, greedily, and digs his fingernails into your hips, pushing you back against the seat.
Your mind is barely processing anything anymore, everything is complete black, but out of nowhere you hear Travis speak. “It feels nice, don’t it?”
You squeeze your eyes tighter together, wishing he hadn’t just spoken, reminding you that he’s still there, staring and drooling over you like you’re some kind of live porno - which, you guess you kind of are. You feel so incredibly dirty and disgusting. Another thought quickly passes through your mind, making you wonder if Ryan has done this to him before. How many other people has Ryan done this for so quickly? How many other people had he done this to for drugs? Does he usually just pick up random guys, barely talk to them, and have sex with them on the same night in front of his creepy drug dealer?
The thoughts are gone in a second though; the pleasure coming from Ryan’s warm mouth wrapped around your cock is just too much. You can feel yourself hit the back of his throat, and fuck.
“Argh, shit!” you cry, grabbing a fistful of Ryan’s soft locks. You can’t breathe.
It isn’t long before you come, Ryan swallowing every last bit of it. He sits up, pulling your pants up with him. He grabs one of your shirts from the ground and wipes his mouth. All you manage to do is pant out, “Shit.”
He smiles like its no big deal, and the next thing you know you’re snorting cocaine - compliments of Travis for their little show - off of Ryan, and then, the two of you are stumbling out of the car and onto the street, alcohol bottle still clutched in Ryan’s hand.
He wraps his arms loosely around your neck, smiling like a maniac up at him, while he sways back and forth, back and forth. “What do you want to do now?”
You shrug, head rolling back and forth on your shoulders. You feel young and carefree, just like a kid. Nothing can ever go wrong, you’re invincible, and you are with Ryan. It doesn’t even faze you that you’re drunk and high out of your mind, in a strange city, with a strange boy you only met that night. “Ry…” you start, looking up at the night sky, but because of the Vegas lights, you can barely see any stars. This makes you feel a little depressed.
“Hmm?” he asks, head tilted up at the sky too.
“Are you a prostitute?” you ask, nonchalantly, like it’s the most normal, non-offense question to ask someone.
Fortunately, Ryan is too high to take offence, and he just snorts. “Why would you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, just - um, hmm, well, Travis, I suppose,” you mumble, face pressed into the crook of Ryan’s neck, rubbing your nose against his smooth skin. You just can’t stop touching him.
He giggles, pushing your head gently away from his neck so he can look at you. “He’s my - he’s my drug dealer. That’s all. Drug dealer slash friend.” He rests a gentle hand on your jaw, and you lean into his touch. “Don’t grind your teeth together.”
Noticing that you’re in fact, doing just that, you obey, loosening your jaw. “So… you’ve never done anything with him or anyone else to get drugs like we did tonight?”
He twists his face together in thought, and tilts his head to the side. “Well, I don’t know.” He doesn’t say anymore, but instead presses a wet kiss to your lips, like he’s trying to keep anymore words from coming out of your mouth. And it works, because you shut up and kiss him back.
He slowly backs you up against the brick wall, hands trailing over every inch of your body that he can reach. He slides his tongue along the outline of your jaw, and whispers into your skin, “Brendon, I want to be in you.”
You whimper, because you can’t think of anything you’ve ever wanted more in your life. You kiss him back for a moment or so as his hips begin to grind hard against yours. You rest your hands square on his chest, pulling your lips and tongue away from his, and say, firm, “We should - we probably shouldn’t do this right here.”
He pouts, pulling away, fingers hooked into your belt loop. “Where are we supposed to go?” He pauses to think, then says, “I would say we could take my car somewhere but,” he laughs out loud, shaking his head, and whispers the next part out as if it’s a secret, “I don’t remember where the hell I parked it.”
You laugh, running your finger along his cheek, down his jaw, to his neck.
“Let’s just take the train,” Ryan says, leaning forward to rest his head on your beating chest, listening to your fast heartbeat.
“And go where?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. My apartment?” He looks up, a suggestive smile on his lips. “We can do whatever we want to there.”
You crack a grin. “I think I’d like that.”
“Good,” he beams, grabbing onto your hand, intertwining each finger together at a time, then he starts back down the street again. “But, hmm, what about your band? Don’t you need to like, be somewhere?”
You shrug. If you were sober, you would know that he was probably right, and they’re probably pissed the fuck off and wondering where the hell you had disappeared, especially in a strange city like Vegas. You would know that they were leaving first thing in the morning, and that they were probably going to kill you or just leave without you. If you were sober, you would realize the vibrating coming from your pocket every few minutes was probably them trying to call you, and if you were sober, you would know to answer it. But you’re not sober, so you don’t care. “I’ll just meet up with them in the morning. It’ll be fine.”
Ryan nods, smiles and squeezes your hand so hard that you swear your hand goes numb for a moment. And soon, you’re running down the street, spinning and singing at the top of your lungs, just like you did when you were a kid. You’re exchanging wet kisses after every few spins and twirls. You swear that you fell in love for the night.
Somehow you manage to find the train. It’s empty except for a hairy man sitting in the seat near the front, who is either passed out or not alive at all. You make your way to the back, and despite all the dozen of empty seats around you, Ryan decides to plop down onto your lap, thin legs straddling yours.
“I hope,” you start, craning your neck to look at the brightly lit street below, “I hope you know where you’re going.”
“Oh, I do,” he responds, voice low and close to your ear. “Don’t worry.”
Your heads spinning and you feel like you’re running a marathon, but you’re sitting still with Ryan plastered onto your lap, his breath twirling and spinning against your cheek.
Ryan’s warm mouth finds yours, and you spend the rest of the train ride kissing and touching, and for the first time in a long time, you feel completely and totally alive.
Minutes are going by like seconds, but yet, you can’t seem to remember a single thing that happened not even a minute ago. You can feel your phone vibrating in your pocket, over and over again, but you keep on ignoring it, and throw yourself further into Ryan, giggling into his mouth.
When you get to Ryan’s apartment, you can’t even remember how you got there.
Ryan’s apartment is small and dirty, and sketchy and rundown, and you wonder how he could possibly stand living here, but at that moment, you can’t think of a single place you’d rather be.
Then, Ryan grabs onto your hips, pulls you towards the small attached room, towards a bed, a huge, childish grin on his stunning face. “I’m happy we met,” he says, quietly, falling down on his lumpy, hard mattress, pulling you down with him. “It’s like - it’s like I’ve known you my whole life, you know?”
You hoist yourself up onto your elbows, and look down at Ryan’s smooth, ageless face. “I know.” You kiss his nose, then his cheek, then his upper lip, then his bottom. “I don’t ever want to leave. I want to stop time right now, right in this moment with you. I’ve never felt so… happy.”
“It’s the drugs.” Ryan smirks.
“No, it’s all you,” you reply, genuine.
For the first time that night, you see a small blush form across his cheeks. “Okay, well, so do I then.” He runs a finger over your cheek, and down across your lips. He brings his hands down to the hem of your shirt, and pulls it up your back, then over your head, tossing it onto the messy floor beside them. He runs his fingers up your side, and presses a hard kiss to your swollen lips.
Piece by piece, clothing by clothing, the pile on the dirty ground grows, until there’s nothing left on your scrawny bodies. Ryan kisses your chest and says, “I’m sorry about Travis. I shouldn’t have gotten you to do that, I just, I do stup - ”
You push a single finger to his lips, shushing him, because you really don’t want to talk or even think about Travis right now - or maybe, ever again. Ryan blinks and nods, before he reaches forward, kissing you. Before you can process it, you’re pressed under Ryan, your legs up on his shoulder, and Ryan’s in you, and you can’t think at all anymore because everything about Ryan just feels so good. Everything about him just feels so right.
Maybe you should feel cheap and slutty, because you know you’re not the first person that’s been fucked on Ryan’s old, worn-out bed. You’re not the first person who Ryan had picked up at some bar, or did drugs with, or gave a blowjob to, to get those drugs. But, for some reason, you don’t. Not at all.
When it ends, Ryan stays in you for a few minutes, his face pressed into your neck and shoulder. His breath shallow and even, just like yours and you can practically count Ryan’s heart beats pounding against your chest through his.
Ryan tilts his head to the side and mumbles a simple ‘thank you’ into your jaw, and you don’t ask why he’s thanking you for, you just wrap your arms tighter around his waist, and kiss his damp, matted hair.
Ryan smiles into your skin, pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you. You don’t say anything for awhile, and you’re reminded of earlier that night, when you first met, but it seems like centuries ago.
“You know,” Ryan says, “the second I saw you up on that stage, I knew - I knew I had to talk to you. To know you.
“To fuck me?”
Ryan turns his head to the side, smiling at you, but doesn’t answer. He grabs onto your hand that’s resting at your side, and squeezes tight. “I just knew I had to know you. That we were meant to.”
“Mmm,” you agree softly, barely finding enough energy to nod your head. “Maybe we knew each other in another life or something.”
“Maybe.”
You’re silent again, and you can still hear Ryan’s heart beating next to you. You think about the morning, and your band, and L.A., and you squeeze tighter onto Ryan’s hand because you just don’t want to leave.
You look around the room, taking it all in - the moldy, cracked walls, the grubby, worn-out green carpet and the early morning sun just peaking through the sheet covered window. You know Ryan’s a junkie, and possibly even a whore and somewhere deep down in your conscious you know you should have never gotten into any of this, that Ryan is just bad news. You’re the well-off, band boy from California, who vowed to never try any type of drug in your life. But, now - now, you’re already so far in, you had been since your eyes first connected with Ryan’s, five hours ago in the smoky, loud club.
You know you should be getting up and going to find your band, to go on with your tour in your crappy bus, to leave Ryan and just forget, but you just can’t.
“Ryan?”
“Hm?” he murmurs, voice rough, his eyes still glued to the cracked ceiling above.
“Have you ever been in love?”
He’s silent for a few moments, thinking it over, eventually; he carefully replies with, “Love’s just an excuse to get hurt.” He pauses, his thumb running over yours as he turns his head to face you and asks, “Do you like to hurt?”
You study his eyes, his lips, his nose and even his eyelashes. “I do,” you whisper, voice cracking.
Again, Ryan pauses, thinking this over, his face expressionless. Finally, what seems like years later, a small smile makes its way onto his thin, chapped lips as he whispers back, “Then, hurt me.”
THE END.
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