greenapple: (ryan atwood:lights)
[personal profile] greenapple
Crash Of Light Come Down
The O.C.
550 words
November 2009
Adult content: explicit sexual reference
Note: pre-4th season
Summary: No reminders.

He's got one knee pinned to his chest and someone's thumb digging into his cheek, his mouth, splitting his cut lip open again. Someone's hand on his throat, holding him down, keeping him down while they get what they want.

Not a woman; no women at all, not in this place. No reminders. He doesn't want romance. He just wants to get fucked.

He'd never imagined this for himself; never thought he'd be this, do this. But there's a first time for everything. Getting fucked, getting fucked over, fucking things up: he figures they're all just points on the same familiar continuum.

He braces himself, fingers clenched tight in the empty bunk above, creak and shudder as he pulls tight, knuckles scraping metal, as raw and bruised as the rest of him. He feels too much. He doesn't feel enough.

Harder, he grits out through bared teeth, can barely speak around the hand on his throat, congested feel of heat and pressure and he can't hear himself, just the in and out sound of breath and blood, submerged and distant. Neck craned back and a whole sunset of red behind his shut eyes.

There's no pain, not anymore; just dull impact of two bodies coming together and a twisted, obscure gratification a lot like what he feels in the cage; the same relief and calm of knowing he's been beaten. The dull savage pleasure of fighting and fighting hard, and the freedom that comes from not being able to fight anymore.

The guy above him, back bent and head down, slams hard into him and goes still; the hard points of his fingers spasm against Ryan's throat, before going lax.

The guy pulls out and the bed dips and rises again when the guy gets up to pull up his pants, and Ryan turns his head away and sets his jaw. Wants to say Thanks, wants to say, Get out. He doesn't trust his voice. Then the door opens and closes again, and he doesn't have to say anything.

The creases of his fingers sting where the metal frame has cut through, and he flexes them slowly, just one more sensation.

He stares up at the lattice above him, dark and light geometry. Glazed streetlight the color of a bonfire through the dirty window. He doesn't jerk off, even though he could. Still high on whatever it was he'd felt -- angry, turned on, both, whatever. His share of the damage, cuts and bruises and abrasions real and metaphorical, those aching parts of him still feel good, not yet taking on the sharpness they'll feel later on.

He only recognizes the feel of come running out of him when it's cooler than his skin, when there's a cold wet mess of it underneath him. So it turns out that fucking a guy is nothing like making love to a woman, and a lot like fighting. That's good. Good to know. He doesn't want reminders. Next time, maybe it'll be better. He already knows: there will be a next time. And a next time.

He sits up, bare feet on the floor. Cool and hard, and nothing like sand beneath his feet. And the receding roar in his head is nothing like waves, and the taste of blood and worse in his mouth is nothing like water.