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[FIC] RPF: half-life [1/3]
... So this fic. I wrote it in the mess of my essay-writing period, in piques of depression and frustration. I nearly gave up so many times on this, and it ended up being something almost cathartic. This is a very, very dark fic. I don't use that as a warning for rape or anything like that. It's just incredibly depressing. Please, please, please heed the warnings.
It might be strange that I dedicate such a horribly dark fic to someone, but this fic is dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
noalinnea. She's the one who continuously encouraged me to write it, so in the end, it might as well be written for her. 8D So: for you, lovely! Congratulations on passing the test and being a doctor! ♥♥♥ I hope this fic didn't make you feel too horrible about everything in the world.
Oh, and because of the nature of this fic? I'm pretty much not cross-posting it.
Edit: Okay, so it's not as horrid as I thought. >_>
half-life
Characters/Pairing: Technically Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen, but... you’ll see.
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~14500 + ~500
Beta:helena_s_renn, thank you so much!
Disclaimer: Every single thing is a product of imagination. It didn't happen and I really hope that it didn’t. Depiction is not endorsement. This disclaimer is super important.
Summary: There’s nothing anyone can do that is worse than what you can do to yourself.
Warnings: Alcoholism, self-hatred, an overuse of real life events, casual misogyny, anonymous unsafe sex with strangers, possibly confusing plot. Basically, if you don’t want the complete destruction of happy endings, clear-cut characters, right and wrong, and idealised versions of these men, don’t read this.
Part I
He couldn’t count how many beers he’d had. He couldn’t count how many whiskeys he’d had either. Sean threw his head back and laughed, sharp and loud. The joke wasn’t particularly funny. In fact, he hadn’t even heard it. But someone was talking to him, and the best response was to laugh. His heart was beating in his ears, drowning out all other noises. Da-dum-da-dum, he was sick of the sound, so he drank even more, drowned them all out. The burn of the whiskey, the bitterness of the beer. Sean didn’t care for the taste of either. If there was a way of piping alcohol into his veins via a needle, he would do it.
I don’t have any mirrors in my house anymore.
Thinking. He was still thinking. Sean laughed again and threw another shot of whiskey back. He had a friend with him, and that friend had a hand on his arm, trying to talk to him, trying to tell him something. But Sean waved his hand away and gulped down another half a bottle of beer. Around him, he could hear cheers. More alcohol pressed into his hand. He remembered something: asking the waiter to keep them coming. That was a good decision.
This is pathetic.
The more he drank, the softer the voice spoke. Drowned out by his own breathing, drowned out by his laughter. Even his heartbeat faded. There were cheers around him, people taunting him that he couldn’t possibly drink anymore. He liked this place. The people here, they didn’t ever try to stop him drinking.
You can’t drown me out forever.
Yes he could. He always could. Alcohol, work, his daughters. Sean had perfected the art of forgetting. It wasn’t denial, because denial meant something existed. Nothing existed. If he said it didn’t, then it didn’t. If it refused to go away, it just meant that he had to work a little bit harder at it. Sean knew all about working hard. He wasn’t a slacker; that much everyone around him knew. First to the set, last to leave. No director had ever blamed him for being busy. Sean drained the last of that bottle of beer.
Last to come home, first to leave. Isn’t that why-
There was another bottle of beer in his hand but the world was moving. He couldn’t hear his own footsteps, much less feel his feet. He didn’t need to. He’d brought a friend; a good friend, a good man, a hand on Sean’s elbow as he steered him out of the bar. London was always so bright, so full of lights- no, that was not a streetlamp. That was a camera’s flash. Flashing camera. Someone was looking at him. He remembered:
Laughter, sweeter laughter, not tainted by drink. Glass surrounded by black, glinting off the light that came shining down between the leaves of the trees. Blue eyes, a dimpled chin, white, almost-crooked teeth. Laughter.
His throat was hot. It wasn’t the alcohol. Sean drained the bottle and tossed it to the ground. He pulled his elbow out of his nice friend’s grasp. His heart was roaring in his ears. The world was moving, but he could hear own his feet. Slamming on the pavement. It was almost familiar. His legs burned. His hand. The wavering little figure with that piece of shit camera had disappeared. There were more cameras.
Sean covered his eyes. It was the only thing he could do.
Story of your life.
No. No, the story of an alcoholic’s. A role that Sean received. Benny... Benny... the one time he wanted his mind to start working, it didn’t. Never mind. Sean wasn’t an alcoholic. He lived without alcohol when he was working. Not a single drop until the director called ‘cut’ and sent them all home. Not that there was anything wrong with taking a drop. Plenty of actors do it. Pete... God, Pete was a glorious man. Always had a drink in his hand.
He’s researching for a role the fun way. Not Method. He wasn’t a Method actor. That was a technique for-
Viggo
-someone’s name he couldn’t be bothered with remembering right now. It didn’t matter.
***
Something new. More work. Sean loved to work, loved his work. There was a difference between those two statements that he wasn’t particularly interested in investigating right now. A new project, his agent had told him. He had always wanted to be in a cowboy movie, and here there was one being served up to him on a plate. Too bad there weren’t horses.
Or that was better, really.
He loved Toronto. The people were polite and were far less prone to rushing up to him and asking for his autograph, or whispering loudly about him hoping that he would hear and punch them so they could earn some money from selling the story and suing him. Less people who would recognise him. That was less of a problem nowadays, outside of London. He wasn’t very much recognisable anymore, was he? That was a good thing, he decided. A damn good thing.
It was easy to smile and talk, as easy as it had ever been. Sean was an actor, and so what if he was always acting nowadays, outside of pubs and bars and when he was alone with a bottle. There was nothing wrong with that. A person had to know how to act whenever they were in a certain situation. You couldn’t be yourself, that wasn’t allowed, not in this business. Actors didn’t only act in front of a camera. Even directors acted. They were all false men (and women) in the end, pretending to be someone better, someone more respectable, selling themselves and their ideas like the most well-dressed of whores. It was a game that Sean had played for a long time.
The name of the film escaped him now. It didn’t matter anyway. His agent would call him and remind him a week before, or send him an email to remind him. Technology was a great improvement upon society, no matter what anyone said. There was a man, once... A boy when he knew him, who hated technology and always said he hated it. Sean knew his name, but names weren’t important. Faces weren’t important. He knew his lines even when they weren’t scripted. He knew how to act; knew how to pretend. He made a whole career of it. Someone once said that actors were paid to be like children, playing pretend. He had mastered that; playing pretend.
So what if he wasn’t particularly good at it at times? There was no one to see him then. The world didn’t care about you when your pictures weren’t splashed across papers for everyone to see.
He goes to see Viggo at his premiere. He takes a seat at the back and wears a baseball cap, pulled low over his face. Perhaps it’s pathetic, acting like he’s some kind of stalker or something, but Sean decides that this is what he wants.
God, but Viggo is beautiful. He’s always been beautiful, but age has deepened the lines in his face and made him even more so. When he smiles it’s not the sun coming out, because that is cliché, but it is the sea that draws away from the shore, revealing white sands, white beaches, far too good to be true. This man is too good to be true. He’s a dream, a dream that Sean watches and listens to and tries to grasp with both hands. But his hands are slippery now, so full of dirt that it has become utterly impossible for him to hold onto anything.
He watches and listens to Viggo talk and categorises every single spot of imperfection that he can see, from the wrinkles on his shirt to the scars upon his hands. It is more of a dream than ever, because it is impossible to see Viggo’s hands from so far away. Memories of a magical place, when Viggo’s hands are on his clothes, his shoulders, his skin. He remembers the scrape of calluses against his beard, and he wonders why the memory is so clear. It is an old memory, from long ago, and he’s not felt the like since.
Strange what a mind does.
Sean liked smooth hands. Hands of people who had never held anything rougher than a pen in their lives. Women who slathered their skins with creams and lotions, with perfectly tapered nails that showed how little they truly had to work. It came down to differences, he thought. Opposites attracting. If women thought exactly like men, where was the excitement?
The bar was a dark place. Sean and his baseball hat and jeans stood out, but the bartender gave him a whiskey and he stopped caring. There was plenty of beauty here; young men with smooth, pale skins who danced like they were trying to fuck the air, shoving their arms upwards and throwing their heads back. Young men, barely men, who stood at the corners with their legs slightly apart and their eyelashes heavy with mascara and eyeliner, little better than whores except they charged not money but dignity.
Sean drank. His hand did not shake. There was a beautiful man on the dance floor, his hair long enough to brush his chin. It was sweat-soaked but there was no product in it. Sean drank. The man danced and danced, and the dim bar lights glanced across his eyes and they were blue, the blue of the ocean just as it crashed against the cliffs. His nipples peeked through the mesh shirt. Sean finished his drink, and ordered another one. His lips were pink and thin, perfect and unscarred, but his pants stretched so tightly across his crotch that Sean could see the outline of his cock. He leaned left.
Sean drank.
“Buy a man a drink?”
The voice was wrong, Sean noted. But it didn’t matter. The hips were close enough, and the legs -- long, slim, clad in leather jeans. He smiled, lifted a shoulder.
“Vodka tonic.”
There’s more grey and silver in Viggo’s hair nowadays. The brown came from a bottle and the gold had long faded, but wasn’t his own hair the same? It is just stubbornness that keeps his roots from showing, but his body betrays him anyway, with little spots where hair used to be. But he’s not here to think about himself.
Viggo’s voice has not changed. It’s still the same. Not only the sound itself but the rhythm. Sometimes he thinks that he can key his heartbeat to it, force it to beat with every soft rise of Viggo’s voice, in the musicality of his speech. He doesn’t know the words and he doesn’t particularly care. The voice is enough - the voice and the parting of his lips, wet despite the slow-approaching dry chill of Toronto. Pink lips underneath yellow lights, almost obscene. Sharp lines of cheekbones and jaws, as if carved by a sculptor; marble instead of human flesh. He is dreaming again, but he can’t see either of those from here.
(He thinks of Pygmalion. Pygmalion and Galatea, his beautiful creation. Except that his own hands tremble far too much to wield a chisel, and not even a god can breathe life into something without form, something entirely made up of mist and bitterness and wishing.)
He can remember that crooked grin, so close that it seems like a dream. It is a dream. Dreams are his reality and his anti-reality both. Sometimes he wishes he knows the difference, or at least, he knows what he wants.
The lines beside Viggo’s eyes have deepened. Do they taste different from the rest of his face? Does the salt gather better? If he tastes the skin, will it be salt, or his own tears?
Or will it only be ash?
The bar’s bathroom was a dirty place. Sean’s knees ached when he sank down, his hands clinging onto leather-clad hips. He didn’t bother pulling them all the way down, just the zip. He tugged the half-hard cock out with his hand and sucked it into his mouth. Thicker than a fag and far more salty, but the burn and the bitterness was almost the same. Almost; he could deal with almost.
There was a hand in his hair, a wordless groan up top, and Sean opened his mouth wide just as the young man shoved his cock down his throat. Deep enough to choke, but Sean swallowed back the tears and took his punishment, his knees spreading even wider. His cock was pressing against the zipper of his jeans, the rasp of the metal painful against the sensitive tip, but Sean only pressed hard down on it, scraping the metal all along his cock. He shuddered from the burn in his throat, the burn in his groin, the pain in his eyes. He closed them, shoving his mouth in even further, feeling his teeth catch in pubic hair.
It was disgusting. Utterly disgusting and demeaning. Like addicts that snort coke in public restrooms, surrounded by shit and piss and vomit. He was little different. Worse. The come on his tongue was not poison for his body but it was poison nonetheless. Like a little shot of shame. Sean almost laughed when the hand in his hair held him still as the man fucked his mouth. Nothing but a hole; nothing better than a sex toy. He was fine with that. It was what he was looking for.
Gentleness had no place in these dingy, dark bars. They were all the same across all countries. Places of shame and shamelessness both, where people made use of each other. Sean wasn’t wearing the cap any longer but he didn’t need to. It was his mouth that was wanted, not his face. Except this time--
He felt the cock twitch. Almost, almost, he lived his life on almosts nowadays. Almost there but never reaching it, never good enough. He closed his eyes just in time to feel the cock spurt in front of him, come streaking across his face, nose and eyes and hair and chin and mouth. Sean shuddered and shame was like arousal, like adrenaline, little different from either, and he pulled down the zip of his pants just in time to feel the come paint the palm of his own hand.
Little better than a whore, except he was a whore who gave his own money to be used. Reduced to a hole. In his youth there had been places in London. Toilets with holes at waist level to shove cocks into. Or so he’d heard. He’d never been there.
Too late, too late, almost in time. The bell tolled too early and now he was out of time. That was a line for that bastard to write about. Something just perfect for the kind of things he liked to worry about. Sean lowered his eyelids and licked his own hand clean, then licked his lips. He knew that the man whose come painted his face could still see him; could see the way that Sean was dragging his fingers through the white stains, as if rubbing it into his skin, into every crease, every pore.
“Thought a man as old as you would be better at this.”
He ignored the words. Words had no place here either. Around them were the sounds of mouths on cocks, asses on cocks, cocks on cocks. The rumbles of protesting doors and the screams of hinges. Sean slipped his fingers into his mouth and sucked the tips. Come tasted like come. Salt and bitterness and rust - or perhaps the last was just the blood at his throat, the blood on his lip, from foreign cocks and his own teeth.
The door closed. Sean did not turn. Instead, he lifted the toilet seat. Come, piss, shit and vomit.
Everything tasted the same when it all came up.
Like fire. Like hatred. Like shame.
Viggo leaves. He watches his back as he goes before he stands, cap pulled down low. A cigarette in his mouth once he’s out of air-conditioning. He starts to walk.
He needs a drink.
***
What day was it? Why would he care?
The sun was coming in through the window. Daylight then. Sean groaned, slamming a hand over his face. His mouth felt like shit and his head was throbbing. He groped for the nightstand, pulling out the lower drawer. Without bothering to open his eyes, he grabbed for the bottle he kept there just for this purpose, pulling the cap open and dropping it on the sheets. He took a swig, savouring the taste of the whiskey as it slid down his throat.
He’d done something last night. He remembered light. Something about cameras. Some bastard following him around snapping pictures. Sean snorted to himself, half-stumbling, half-pulling himself out of bed. There was a graze on his hand. Dried blood was still encrusted on it. He looked at it before he stumbled over to the bathroom. Upended the whiskey over his hand and savoured in the burn. What was it that Sharpe said? Half-and-half: half on the wound, half in the mouth. He drank more whiskey and shook the droplets off his hand.
The laptop was blinking at him. New emails. There shouldn’t be anything recentl Nothing was coming up. He moved over anyway, squinting as he pulled over the laptop lid. The words were blurry, dancing in front of his eyes, but he knew enough to click on buttons.
Sean, Ian’s email said. I think you might appreciate this.
He shouldn’t click the link. Ian was a busybody bastard, but Sean couldn’t help himself. Or maybe someone else had control of his hand as he pressed the button.
Viggo. Viggo looking absolutely stunning in a cream suit and matching hat that would have looked disgusting on anyone else. Blue shirt, dark blue tie, shoes. Sean swallowed saliva and bile as he zoomed into the photographs. Sunglasses; Viggo was wearing sunglasses. That was good. Sean couldn’t deal with seeing those eyes right now. (Blue, blue and grey, blue with grey amongst filth and crap lighting.) Long fingers and a white pocket handkerchief tucked in perfectly in his breast pocket. Sean’s hands trembled.
He closed his eyes and took another swig of the whiskey. His hand slammed the lid closed, not even bothering to reply to Ian. He drank some more.
The hair of the dog cured the disease.
***
23:14:21 "You have beautiful eyes. Grey. Changes with the light."
23:22:18 "My eyes are green, Sean."
23:24:02 "Georgie, Georgie. Did I ever mention that I love your tits?"
23:29:01 "Are you drunk?"
23:30:55 "Having a pint with a mate. You can't nag me about it anymore. We're divorced."
23:32:10 "Exactly. So stop texting me."
23:33:15 "I'm complimenting you. You should be happy. New boyfriend know your hair comes out of a bottle?"
23:38:43 "You're fucking pathetic, you know that? Fucking pathetic."
23:41:27 "Ha. I win."
23:43:06 "Win at what? The competition about who is the most pathetic?"
23:43:59 "No. Argument."
23:45:17 "We're not arguing, Sean."
23:47:22 "Then why are you texting me back?"
23:49:36 "Tell me why you texted me in the first place."
23:59:02 "Complimenting you. Suddenly thought of your tits and your arse. Beautiful things, them. Nice big handfuls. You had nice lips and you always look fucking good with my cock between them. Still use the same slut-coloured lipstick?"
00:04:35 "Fuck yourself on a blow-up doll."
00:06:11 “Didn't need to. Had you the last time for that, didn't I?”
00:08:12 “You were never particularly tight, though. Remembered you at the bar. Had a train of blokes waiting for you to spread your legs. You with your red lips and fuck me heels.”
00:10:37 “Still remember you on your knees. Men’s WC, getting your bar apron dirty on the floor when you wrapped your mouth around my cock. Told your new boyfriend yet that your mouth and your cunt had Sean Bean in them?”
00:13:24 “You wore that rubber dress of yours for your new man?”
00:14:10: “Have fun with the coppers tomorrow, darling.”
00:16:05 "Never quit that habit, have you?
***
“Sean.”
“Ian,” Sean drawled. He decided that he would be adventurous this morning, and poured vodka over the ice cubes in his rock glass. Leaning back against the tree in his garden, he yawned as he looked up to the sky through the leaves of the small birch. “What have I done to deserve your delightful company today?”
“Certain worrying reports,” Ian said.
“Yeah?” He clinked the ice against the side of the glass and sipped it.
“Sean,” Ian’s voice sounded sharp. “Are you drinking in the morning? Before eleven o’clock?”
Sean threw the shot back, feeling the burn of vodka mixing with the chill of the ice. It slid down his throat so easily and started a fire in his chest. Oh, it was money well spent alright.
He chuckled, “I’m British, mate. And so are you. It’s perfectly normal.”
“Is it now?”
He leaned over, popping the cap of the vodka bottle and pouring himself another shot. There was something almost defiant about doing this, like he was a teenager again, defying his parents’ wishes, doing what he wanted and nothing less than that. It was a good feeling. He’d missed it.
“Ian, hey Ian,” Sean changed the subject suddenly. “I’ve got a question fer you.”
“What is it?”
“When did you realise yer gay?” He sipped some more at the vodka, releasing his lips from the rim of the glass with a gusty sigh. “I mean, did you just look at a man’s bollocks one day and realised- yeah, I want that. That looks good.”
Ian didn’t answer. Sean didn’t expect him to; he wasn’t finished yet.
“I mean, mmm... look, I played Ranuccio. Stood in front of Derek Jarman half-naked and everything. Even played fucking Tracie and shoved me bits into a pair of panties and a fucking dress. Talked ‘bout thinking of killing meself ‘cause I’m queer.” He tipped his head back and drained the glass, slamming it down beside himself. He wiped his mouth; Ian still wasn’t saying a word. “All throughout, it’s just a bunch of shite. I ain’t even know what it’s like ta want a man. I know how ta pretend all well and good, but it never felt real.”
He said that again, for emphasis, “Never. Hardest part of the job ta get done, you have no fucking idea. And now they are talking ‘bout giving me awards fer pretending ta be a pouf. Why ain’t they giving poufs awards fer pretending ta be straight, eh?”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Ian said, and his tone was careful, so careful. Like Sean was a bomb that could go off at any moment. Though, given the amount of alcohol that was usually in him at any point of time, that probably wasn’t wrong.
“I’m a fucking fake, Ian. A fucking liar. Part of me job description, but I’ve always been good at pretending that the person I am actually goes through the shite I’m pretending he goes through. But I ain’t even know even now why Tracie sees a pair of balls and want ‘em, you get what I mean?” He poured another glass of vodka and swirled it, watching a piece of ice break away from the main piece and float on top of the clear liquid.
“Are you still down under?”
“For now?” Ian didn’t sound fazed over the change in subject. “Yes, I am.”
“I got a new girl now,” Sean said, and he didn’t know why he brought her up. It must be the vodka. “She’s called Victoria. She curates art and goes ta yer theatre performances. Goes ta other theatre performances too and trashes ‘em sometimes. You’d like her.”
“Why?”
Sean blinked, “Why wot?”
“Why do you like her?” Ian asked, still using that careful, gentle tone.
“She’s pretty,” Sean shrugged, taking a sip of the alcohol with the same nationality as his girlfriend. “Long hair. Nice legs. Small tits, but nice tits. No use telling you that bit. She likes vodka. That’s important.”
“I think,” Ian said, “You have your answers, Sean.”
“I ain’t even got a question.”
“Perhaps not,” Sean could hear the creak of wood as Ian leaned back against something. His chair, most likely. “You're trying to ask me something, but you can't even ask what the real question is. You even have the answers already. You just have to admit them.”
Sean stared at the phone. He sighed, “It's too fucking early ta deal with yer cryptic shite, Ian.”
“But not early enough to abstain from alcohol.” He could hear Ian’s raised eyebrow even from miles and miles away and through the phone.
Sean snorted. He tossed the glass down to the grass and grabbed the vodka bottle. The phone went between his chin and shoulder as he used both hands to open the cap. Then he threw the bottle back and swallowed.
“What the hell else am I going ta do with the rest of me day?”
Part II
It might be strange that I dedicate such a horribly dark fic to someone, but this fic is dedicated to
noalinnea. She's the one who continuously encouraged me to write it, so in the end, it might as well be written for her. 8D So: for you, lovely! Congratulations on passing the test and being a doctor! ♥♥♥ I hope this fic didn't make you feel too horrible about everything in the world.Oh, and because of the nature of this fic? I'm pretty much not cross-posting it.
Edit: Okay, so it's not as horrid as I thought. >_>
half-life
Characters/Pairing: Technically Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen, but... you’ll see.
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~14500 + ~500
Beta:
helena_s_renn, thank you so much!Disclaimer: Every single thing is a product of imagination. It didn't happen and I really hope that it didn’t. Depiction is not endorsement. This disclaimer is super important.
Summary: There’s nothing anyone can do that is worse than what you can do to yourself.
Warnings: Alcoholism, self-hatred, an overuse of real life events, casual misogyny, anonymous unsafe sex with strangers, possibly confusing plot. Basically, if you don’t want the complete destruction of happy endings, clear-cut characters, right and wrong, and idealised versions of these men, don’t read this.
Part I
London, 4 October 2012
He couldn’t count how many beers he’d had. He couldn’t count how many whiskeys he’d had either. Sean threw his head back and laughed, sharp and loud. The joke wasn’t particularly funny. In fact, he hadn’t even heard it. But someone was talking to him, and the best response was to laugh. His heart was beating in his ears, drowning out all other noises. Da-dum-da-dum, he was sick of the sound, so he drank even more, drowned them all out. The burn of the whiskey, the bitterness of the beer. Sean didn’t care for the taste of either. If there was a way of piping alcohol into his veins via a needle, he would do it.
I don’t have any mirrors in my house anymore.
Thinking. He was still thinking. Sean laughed again and threw another shot of whiskey back. He had a friend with him, and that friend had a hand on his arm, trying to talk to him, trying to tell him something. But Sean waved his hand away and gulped down another half a bottle of beer. Around him, he could hear cheers. More alcohol pressed into his hand. He remembered something: asking the waiter to keep them coming. That was a good decision.
This is pathetic.
The more he drank, the softer the voice spoke. Drowned out by his own breathing, drowned out by his laughter. Even his heartbeat faded. There were cheers around him, people taunting him that he couldn’t possibly drink anymore. He liked this place. The people here, they didn’t ever try to stop him drinking.
You can’t drown me out forever.
Yes he could. He always could. Alcohol, work, his daughters. Sean had perfected the art of forgetting. It wasn’t denial, because denial meant something existed. Nothing existed. If he said it didn’t, then it didn’t. If it refused to go away, it just meant that he had to work a little bit harder at it. Sean knew all about working hard. He wasn’t a slacker; that much everyone around him knew. First to the set, last to leave. No director had ever blamed him for being busy. Sean drained the last of that bottle of beer.
Last to come home, first to leave. Isn’t that why-
There was another bottle of beer in his hand but the world was moving. He couldn’t hear his own footsteps, much less feel his feet. He didn’t need to. He’d brought a friend; a good friend, a good man, a hand on Sean’s elbow as he steered him out of the bar. London was always so bright, so full of lights- no, that was not a streetlamp. That was a camera’s flash. Flashing camera. Someone was looking at him. He remembered:
Laughter, sweeter laughter, not tainted by drink. Glass surrounded by black, glinting off the light that came shining down between the leaves of the trees. Blue eyes, a dimpled chin, white, almost-crooked teeth. Laughter.
His throat was hot. It wasn’t the alcohol. Sean drained the bottle and tossed it to the ground. He pulled his elbow out of his nice friend’s grasp. His heart was roaring in his ears. The world was moving, but he could hear own his feet. Slamming on the pavement. It was almost familiar. His legs burned. His hand. The wavering little figure with that piece of shit camera had disappeared. There were more cameras.
Sean covered his eyes. It was the only thing he could do.
Story of your life.
No. No, the story of an alcoholic’s. A role that Sean received. Benny... Benny... the one time he wanted his mind to start working, it didn’t. Never mind. Sean wasn’t an alcoholic. He lived without alcohol when he was working. Not a single drop until the director called ‘cut’ and sent them all home. Not that there was anything wrong with taking a drop. Plenty of actors do it. Pete... God, Pete was a glorious man. Always had a drink in his hand.
He’s researching for a role the fun way. Not Method. He wasn’t a Method actor. That was a technique for-
Viggo
-someone’s name he couldn’t be bothered with remembering right now. It didn’t matter.
***
Toronto, September 2012
Something new. More work. Sean loved to work, loved his work. There was a difference between those two statements that he wasn’t particularly interested in investigating right now. A new project, his agent had told him. He had always wanted to be in a cowboy movie, and here there was one being served up to him on a plate. Too bad there weren’t horses.
Or that was better, really.
He loved Toronto. The people were polite and were far less prone to rushing up to him and asking for his autograph, or whispering loudly about him hoping that he would hear and punch them so they could earn some money from selling the story and suing him. Less people who would recognise him. That was less of a problem nowadays, outside of London. He wasn’t very much recognisable anymore, was he? That was a good thing, he decided. A damn good thing.
It was easy to smile and talk, as easy as it had ever been. Sean was an actor, and so what if he was always acting nowadays, outside of pubs and bars and when he was alone with a bottle. There was nothing wrong with that. A person had to know how to act whenever they were in a certain situation. You couldn’t be yourself, that wasn’t allowed, not in this business. Actors didn’t only act in front of a camera. Even directors acted. They were all false men (and women) in the end, pretending to be someone better, someone more respectable, selling themselves and their ideas like the most well-dressed of whores. It was a game that Sean had played for a long time.
The name of the film escaped him now. It didn’t matter anyway. His agent would call him and remind him a week before, or send him an email to remind him. Technology was a great improvement upon society, no matter what anyone said. There was a man, once... A boy when he knew him, who hated technology and always said he hated it. Sean knew his name, but names weren’t important. Faces weren’t important. He knew his lines even when they weren’t scripted. He knew how to act; knew how to pretend. He made a whole career of it. Someone once said that actors were paid to be like children, playing pretend. He had mastered that; playing pretend.
So what if he wasn’t particularly good at it at times? There was no one to see him then. The world didn’t care about you when your pictures weren’t splashed across papers for everyone to see.
He goes to see Viggo at his premiere. He takes a seat at the back and wears a baseball cap, pulled low over his face. Perhaps it’s pathetic, acting like he’s some kind of stalker or something, but Sean decides that this is what he wants.
God, but Viggo is beautiful. He’s always been beautiful, but age has deepened the lines in his face and made him even more so. When he smiles it’s not the sun coming out, because that is cliché, but it is the sea that draws away from the shore, revealing white sands, white beaches, far too good to be true. This man is too good to be true. He’s a dream, a dream that Sean watches and listens to and tries to grasp with both hands. But his hands are slippery now, so full of dirt that it has become utterly impossible for him to hold onto anything.
He watches and listens to Viggo talk and categorises every single spot of imperfection that he can see, from the wrinkles on his shirt to the scars upon his hands. It is more of a dream than ever, because it is impossible to see Viggo’s hands from so far away. Memories of a magical place, when Viggo’s hands are on his clothes, his shoulders, his skin. He remembers the scrape of calluses against his beard, and he wonders why the memory is so clear. It is an old memory, from long ago, and he’s not felt the like since.
Strange what a mind does.
Sean liked smooth hands. Hands of people who had never held anything rougher than a pen in their lives. Women who slathered their skins with creams and lotions, with perfectly tapered nails that showed how little they truly had to work. It came down to differences, he thought. Opposites attracting. If women thought exactly like men, where was the excitement?
The bar was a dark place. Sean and his baseball hat and jeans stood out, but the bartender gave him a whiskey and he stopped caring. There was plenty of beauty here; young men with smooth, pale skins who danced like they were trying to fuck the air, shoving their arms upwards and throwing their heads back. Young men, barely men, who stood at the corners with their legs slightly apart and their eyelashes heavy with mascara and eyeliner, little better than whores except they charged not money but dignity.
Sean drank. His hand did not shake. There was a beautiful man on the dance floor, his hair long enough to brush his chin. It was sweat-soaked but there was no product in it. Sean drank. The man danced and danced, and the dim bar lights glanced across his eyes and they were blue, the blue of the ocean just as it crashed against the cliffs. His nipples peeked through the mesh shirt. Sean finished his drink, and ordered another one. His lips were pink and thin, perfect and unscarred, but his pants stretched so tightly across his crotch that Sean could see the outline of his cock. He leaned left.
Sean drank.
“Buy a man a drink?”
The voice was wrong, Sean noted. But it didn’t matter. The hips were close enough, and the legs -- long, slim, clad in leather jeans. He smiled, lifted a shoulder.
“Vodka tonic.”
There’s more grey and silver in Viggo’s hair nowadays. The brown came from a bottle and the gold had long faded, but wasn’t his own hair the same? It is just stubbornness that keeps his roots from showing, but his body betrays him anyway, with little spots where hair used to be. But he’s not here to think about himself.
Viggo’s voice has not changed. It’s still the same. Not only the sound itself but the rhythm. Sometimes he thinks that he can key his heartbeat to it, force it to beat with every soft rise of Viggo’s voice, in the musicality of his speech. He doesn’t know the words and he doesn’t particularly care. The voice is enough - the voice and the parting of his lips, wet despite the slow-approaching dry chill of Toronto. Pink lips underneath yellow lights, almost obscene. Sharp lines of cheekbones and jaws, as if carved by a sculptor; marble instead of human flesh. He is dreaming again, but he can’t see either of those from here.
(He thinks of Pygmalion. Pygmalion and Galatea, his beautiful creation. Except that his own hands tremble far too much to wield a chisel, and not even a god can breathe life into something without form, something entirely made up of mist and bitterness and wishing.)
He can remember that crooked grin, so close that it seems like a dream. It is a dream. Dreams are his reality and his anti-reality both. Sometimes he wishes he knows the difference, or at least, he knows what he wants.
The lines beside Viggo’s eyes have deepened. Do they taste different from the rest of his face? Does the salt gather better? If he tastes the skin, will it be salt, or his own tears?
Or will it only be ash?
The bar’s bathroom was a dirty place. Sean’s knees ached when he sank down, his hands clinging onto leather-clad hips. He didn’t bother pulling them all the way down, just the zip. He tugged the half-hard cock out with his hand and sucked it into his mouth. Thicker than a fag and far more salty, but the burn and the bitterness was almost the same. Almost; he could deal with almost.
There was a hand in his hair, a wordless groan up top, and Sean opened his mouth wide just as the young man shoved his cock down his throat. Deep enough to choke, but Sean swallowed back the tears and took his punishment, his knees spreading even wider. His cock was pressing against the zipper of his jeans, the rasp of the metal painful against the sensitive tip, but Sean only pressed hard down on it, scraping the metal all along his cock. He shuddered from the burn in his throat, the burn in his groin, the pain in his eyes. He closed them, shoving his mouth in even further, feeling his teeth catch in pubic hair.
It was disgusting. Utterly disgusting and demeaning. Like addicts that snort coke in public restrooms, surrounded by shit and piss and vomit. He was little different. Worse. The come on his tongue was not poison for his body but it was poison nonetheless. Like a little shot of shame. Sean almost laughed when the hand in his hair held him still as the man fucked his mouth. Nothing but a hole; nothing better than a sex toy. He was fine with that. It was what he was looking for.
Gentleness had no place in these dingy, dark bars. They were all the same across all countries. Places of shame and shamelessness both, where people made use of each other. Sean wasn’t wearing the cap any longer but he didn’t need to. It was his mouth that was wanted, not his face. Except this time--
He felt the cock twitch. Almost, almost, he lived his life on almosts nowadays. Almost there but never reaching it, never good enough. He closed his eyes just in time to feel the cock spurt in front of him, come streaking across his face, nose and eyes and hair and chin and mouth. Sean shuddered and shame was like arousal, like adrenaline, little different from either, and he pulled down the zip of his pants just in time to feel the come paint the palm of his own hand.
Little better than a whore, except he was a whore who gave his own money to be used. Reduced to a hole. In his youth there had been places in London. Toilets with holes at waist level to shove cocks into. Or so he’d heard. He’d never been there.
Too late, too late, almost in time. The bell tolled too early and now he was out of time. That was a line for that bastard to write about. Something just perfect for the kind of things he liked to worry about. Sean lowered his eyelids and licked his own hand clean, then licked his lips. He knew that the man whose come painted his face could still see him; could see the way that Sean was dragging his fingers through the white stains, as if rubbing it into his skin, into every crease, every pore.
“Thought a man as old as you would be better at this.”
He ignored the words. Words had no place here either. Around them were the sounds of mouths on cocks, asses on cocks, cocks on cocks. The rumbles of protesting doors and the screams of hinges. Sean slipped his fingers into his mouth and sucked the tips. Come tasted like come. Salt and bitterness and rust - or perhaps the last was just the blood at his throat, the blood on his lip, from foreign cocks and his own teeth.
The door closed. Sean did not turn. Instead, he lifted the toilet seat. Come, piss, shit and vomit.
Everything tasted the same when it all came up.
Like fire. Like hatred. Like shame.
Viggo leaves. He watches his back as he goes before he stands, cap pulled down low. A cigarette in his mouth once he’s out of air-conditioning. He starts to walk.
He needs a drink.
***
London, 5 October 2012
What day was it? Why would he care?
The sun was coming in through the window. Daylight then. Sean groaned, slamming a hand over his face. His mouth felt like shit and his head was throbbing. He groped for the nightstand, pulling out the lower drawer. Without bothering to open his eyes, he grabbed for the bottle he kept there just for this purpose, pulling the cap open and dropping it on the sheets. He took a swig, savouring the taste of the whiskey as it slid down his throat.
He’d done something last night. He remembered light. Something about cameras. Some bastard following him around snapping pictures. Sean snorted to himself, half-stumbling, half-pulling himself out of bed. There was a graze on his hand. Dried blood was still encrusted on it. He looked at it before he stumbled over to the bathroom. Upended the whiskey over his hand and savoured in the burn. What was it that Sharpe said? Half-and-half: half on the wound, half in the mouth. He drank more whiskey and shook the droplets off his hand.
The laptop was blinking at him. New emails. There shouldn’t be anything recentl Nothing was coming up. He moved over anyway, squinting as he pulled over the laptop lid. The words were blurry, dancing in front of his eyes, but he knew enough to click on buttons.
Sean, Ian’s email said. I think you might appreciate this.
He shouldn’t click the link. Ian was a busybody bastard, but Sean couldn’t help himself. Or maybe someone else had control of his hand as he pressed the button.
Viggo. Viggo looking absolutely stunning in a cream suit and matching hat that would have looked disgusting on anyone else. Blue shirt, dark blue tie, shoes. Sean swallowed saliva and bile as he zoomed into the photographs. Sunglasses; Viggo was wearing sunglasses. That was good. Sean couldn’t deal with seeing those eyes right now. (Blue, blue and grey, blue with grey amongst filth and crap lighting.) Long fingers and a white pocket handkerchief tucked in perfectly in his breast pocket. Sean’s hands trembled.
He closed his eyes and took another swig of the whiskey. His hand slammed the lid closed, not even bothering to reply to Ian. He drank some more.
The hair of the dog cured the disease.
***
28 April 2012
23:14:21 "You have beautiful eyes. Grey. Changes with the light."
23:22:18 "My eyes are green, Sean."
23:24:02 "Georgie, Georgie. Did I ever mention that I love your tits?"
23:29:01 "Are you drunk?"
23:30:55 "Having a pint with a mate. You can't nag me about it anymore. We're divorced."
23:32:10 "Exactly. So stop texting me."
23:33:15 "I'm complimenting you. You should be happy. New boyfriend know your hair comes out of a bottle?"
23:38:43 "You're fucking pathetic, you know that? Fucking pathetic."
23:41:27 "Ha. I win."
23:43:06 "Win at what? The competition about who is the most pathetic?"
23:43:59 "No. Argument."
23:45:17 "We're not arguing, Sean."
23:47:22 "Then why are you texting me back?"
23:49:36 "Tell me why you texted me in the first place."
23:59:02 "Complimenting you. Suddenly thought of your tits and your arse. Beautiful things, them. Nice big handfuls. You had nice lips and you always look fucking good with my cock between them. Still use the same slut-coloured lipstick?"
00:04:35 "Fuck yourself on a blow-up doll."
00:06:11 “Didn't need to. Had you the last time for that, didn't I?”
00:08:12 “You were never particularly tight, though. Remembered you at the bar. Had a train of blokes waiting for you to spread your legs. You with your red lips and fuck me heels.”
00:10:37 “Still remember you on your knees. Men’s WC, getting your bar apron dirty on the floor when you wrapped your mouth around my cock. Told your new boyfriend yet that your mouth and your cunt had Sean Bean in them?”
00:13:24 “You wore that rubber dress of yours for your new man?”
00:14:10: “Have fun with the coppers tomorrow, darling.”
00:16:05 "Never quit that habit, have you?
***
6 Oct 2012
“Sean.”
“Ian,” Sean drawled. He decided that he would be adventurous this morning, and poured vodka over the ice cubes in his rock glass. Leaning back against the tree in his garden, he yawned as he looked up to the sky through the leaves of the small birch. “What have I done to deserve your delightful company today?”
“Certain worrying reports,” Ian said.
“Yeah?” He clinked the ice against the side of the glass and sipped it.
“Sean,” Ian’s voice sounded sharp. “Are you drinking in the morning? Before eleven o’clock?”
Sean threw the shot back, feeling the burn of vodka mixing with the chill of the ice. It slid down his throat so easily and started a fire in his chest. Oh, it was money well spent alright.
He chuckled, “I’m British, mate. And so are you. It’s perfectly normal.”
“Is it now?”
He leaned over, popping the cap of the vodka bottle and pouring himself another shot. There was something almost defiant about doing this, like he was a teenager again, defying his parents’ wishes, doing what he wanted and nothing less than that. It was a good feeling. He’d missed it.
“Ian, hey Ian,” Sean changed the subject suddenly. “I’ve got a question fer you.”
“What is it?”
“When did you realise yer gay?” He sipped some more at the vodka, releasing his lips from the rim of the glass with a gusty sigh. “I mean, did you just look at a man’s bollocks one day and realised- yeah, I want that. That looks good.”
Ian didn’t answer. Sean didn’t expect him to; he wasn’t finished yet.
“I mean, mmm... look, I played Ranuccio. Stood in front of Derek Jarman half-naked and everything. Even played fucking Tracie and shoved me bits into a pair of panties and a fucking dress. Talked ‘bout thinking of killing meself ‘cause I’m queer.” He tipped his head back and drained the glass, slamming it down beside himself. He wiped his mouth; Ian still wasn’t saying a word. “All throughout, it’s just a bunch of shite. I ain’t even know what it’s like ta want a man. I know how ta pretend all well and good, but it never felt real.”
He said that again, for emphasis, “Never. Hardest part of the job ta get done, you have no fucking idea. And now they are talking ‘bout giving me awards fer pretending ta be a pouf. Why ain’t they giving poufs awards fer pretending ta be straight, eh?”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Ian said, and his tone was careful, so careful. Like Sean was a bomb that could go off at any moment. Though, given the amount of alcohol that was usually in him at any point of time, that probably wasn’t wrong.
“I’m a fucking fake, Ian. A fucking liar. Part of me job description, but I’ve always been good at pretending that the person I am actually goes through the shite I’m pretending he goes through. But I ain’t even know even now why Tracie sees a pair of balls and want ‘em, you get what I mean?” He poured another glass of vodka and swirled it, watching a piece of ice break away from the main piece and float on top of the clear liquid.
“Are you still down under?”
“For now?” Ian didn’t sound fazed over the change in subject. “Yes, I am.”
“I got a new girl now,” Sean said, and he didn’t know why he brought her up. It must be the vodka. “She’s called Victoria. She curates art and goes ta yer theatre performances. Goes ta other theatre performances too and trashes ‘em sometimes. You’d like her.”
“Why?”
Sean blinked, “Why wot?”
“Why do you like her?” Ian asked, still using that careful, gentle tone.
“She’s pretty,” Sean shrugged, taking a sip of the alcohol with the same nationality as his girlfriend. “Long hair. Nice legs. Small tits, but nice tits. No use telling you that bit. She likes vodka. That’s important.”
“I think,” Ian said, “You have your answers, Sean.”
“I ain’t even got a question.”
“Perhaps not,” Sean could hear the creak of wood as Ian leaned back against something. His chair, most likely. “You're trying to ask me something, but you can't even ask what the real question is. You even have the answers already. You just have to admit them.”
Sean stared at the phone. He sighed, “It's too fucking early ta deal with yer cryptic shite, Ian.”
“But not early enough to abstain from alcohol.” He could hear Ian’s raised eyebrow even from miles and miles away and through the phone.
Sean snorted. He tossed the glass down to the grass and grabbed the vodka bottle. The phone went between his chin and shoulder as he used both hands to open the cap. Then he threw the bottle back and swallowed.
“What the hell else am I going ta do with the rest of me day?”
Part II
no subject
The part I love the most (and love it a strange word because it is the most disgusting thing in fandom I have read in a very long time if ever) is the sms-conversation. He proves to be an abusive asshole of the meanest sort and I want to cheer for her for getting away in time. To me, there just can't be an excuse for any of this. I don't believe that an alcohol addiction turns you into a bad person, I think it just takes away your inhibitions and exposes your true colors and someone who says something like that surely won't get any sympathies from my side. This is so incredibly violent, to write something like that to someone who you have split up with, I would have gone to the police, too. I'm not going to get over this, I am so disgusted. Probably because it always is the same story, in all countries, in all cultures, and then you have to stitch up these woman at the ER because some fucking assholes thinks he owns her. Right. I will end this here, because this won't lead anywhere.
Brilliant writing, and kudos! (and I have to tell you about my co-writing idea, remind me if I don't :)
no subject
I've never watched Peeping Tom, no :3., but the obscenity is entirely deliberate. The two scenes go together primarily because they are both obscene, if only in different ways. Sean in the bar is physically disgusting, while Sean in the amphitheatre is more emotionally disgusting, because he's being an utter coward by not letting Viggo see him while he fantasises and practically faps over Viggo right there. Sean goes to the bar after he leaves Viggo simply because- at the point, it's kind of necessary for him to... make the disturbing, disgusting bits of himself to be physically present in his actions. A fucked up sort of catharsis, really.
I'm not going to get over this, I am so disgusted.
The funny thing is that I wrote the sms section with Sean sending Georgina what he should have sent Viggo. For me, it's filthy not because it's because he would be violent towards her if she's standing there. I really didn't think that he would be. It's more that he's mocking her, in a sense- that he's belittling her in the way a lot of people do in order to feel better about themselves. It's not very clear here, but I wanted to show that she's moved on, she's moved onto better things, while he's stuck on this downward spiral of his own making, and he's twisting the knife into her because that's the only way that he can possibly feel better about himself right now. >_>
LJ stop cutting me off. In any case, I am just really happy that you're getting so worked up over this, because this really isn't a fic that can be read calmly. Or at least, I hope it isn't, aha. Thank you so much for the comment, Noa, and I'm seriously happy you liked it. 8D
NOW GIVE ME THAT CO-WRITING IDEA.
no subject
But, anyway, your story :)
To me the violence lies in the conversation itself, physical violence often isn't far away but you are the boss here, if you say he wouldn't hit her then I'm going to believe you. I certainly would not like him to be anywhere near me in this state. The thought that he is writing to her instead of writing to Viggo certainly is an interesting one. It shows the level of his derangement but cannot serve as something resembling an excuse of doing this to her. His rage has it's origin in something else and is directed at something else and he chooses to make her suffer for it because he can, because it's easy, because sometimes he gets something out of insulting her, if only for a second. Maybe it makes him hate himself a little bit more and maybe that is a reward in itself at this point. Maybe he needs to degrade himself to feel anything, maybe he needs to disgust himself to feel alive. It certainly is a sad picture but how bad he might feel this is not a justification for behaving like that towards someone you claim to have loved and who trusted you. Relationships make you vulnerable on very many levels and it is incredibly unfair to use the knowledge you have gained about someone in the course of an relationship against them afterwards. The other person knows things about you that you might want to erase at the end of an relationship but you can't and it can be tempting at times to use this knowledge when you are hurt but he should know better by then. He knows he is provoking her, his call doesn't serve any other purpose, dialing her number instead of Viggo's is a provocation in itself already because he does not want to talk to her and she is not what he wants, maybe she never has been, and of course he feels bitter because of that. You want a pony for Christmas and by mistake end up with a hamster, sure this sucks and who wouldn't be pissed but beating the hamster to pulp won't help.
no subject
First, the time. It's already a transgression to call her at that time. They are not together anymore, have not been for a very long time and yet he texts her at a time that is the wrong time for so many reasons. Then, the contents. Provocative, negative, insulting. He knows her eyes aren't grey because I bet he can see these grey eyes in front of his inner eye. These few words already are a full-blown insult. Because either it implies that she never has been important enough for him to notice the color of her eyes or it's a blow because he has moved on and is hitting on someone else (you don't send a text like that to your ex if you are flirting with someone else, only is they still mean something, and then it's plainly mean and you are speculating on the fact that they haven't moved on either).
He is hurting, is feeling sorry for himself and instead of curling up in bed needs to find an outlet for his self-loathing. We don't know anything about the separation, maybe is hasn't been pretty, maybe he is still hurting, maybe he connects a lot of negative thoughts with her. But he can't stand to be alone with his thoughts apparently and needs attention, even if it's the completely wrong sort and the completely wrong person.
23:14:21 "You have beautiful eyes. Grey. Changes with the light."
23:22:18 "My eyes are green, Sean."
She really is cautious, already in the beginning and clearly trying to keep things neutral. Makes me wonder what exactly has happened between them.
23:24:02 "Georgie, Georgie. Did I ever mention that I love your tits?"
Second message, second insults. It's not his place to tell her if they have stopped sleeping with each other because it is reducing her to her breasts and at the same time remembering her of a time she might want to forget.
23:29:01 "Are you drunk?"
She seems to know. Make me wonder if this is not the first time that he has drunk too much and become verbally insulting.
23:30:55 "Having a pint with a mate. You can't nag me about it anymore. We're divorced."
Of course this is not doing the trick, it's just making him look bad. If his drinking has been an issue between them she will at this point feel that she has been right about this all the way. If he's lucky she is feeling sorry for him, if he isn't, she just thinks it's disgusting.
23:32:10 "Exactly. So stop texting me."
She clearly says she wants him to stop. Because they are divorced. Because he has no right.
23:33:15 "I'm complimenting you. You should be happy. New boyfriend know your hair comes out of a bottle?"
But he ignores it. Maybe he knows that this is an issue for her, maybe she would like to be a real blonde, maybe she does not like her original hair color. But he surely has not right to pass judgement on the ways she dresses or styles.
no subject
Apparently he has know exactly that his last comment would cause such an reaction. He has managed to upset her and rejoices:
23:41:27 "Ha. I win."
To him, this is a game and that makes it so much worse. He hurts her deliberately and admits that it's a game for him. A distraction while he is having a pint. It's the worst sort of power-play, really. He has had plenty of time to learn which buttons to push and just continues to push them, exploiting the fact that she has not gained enough distance to just delete his messages and ignore him. Even though she maybe does have a boyfriend he can still hurt her and he is exploiting this shamelessly.
23:43:06 "Win at what? The competition about who is the most pathetic?"
This is interesting. Why is she pathetic? Because she has fallen for a man who has dumped a ton of women before her and has said yes anyway only to look back at the ruins of their marriage such a short time later? Because their marriage has lasted the shortest time? Because she would like to blame him for everything that has gone wrong and forget all about him but can't?
23:43:59 "No. Argument."
23:45:17 "We're not arguing, Sean."
They certainly aren't. To me it seems as if she does not understand where all of this is coming from and just tries to find out what is going on.
23:47:22 "Then why are you texting me back?"
Fair question. Maybe because she does not want these words to be the last words she hears from him. Maybe she wants him to acknowledge her importance. Maybe she wants him to realize that it was his fault that she is not sitting there with him.
23:49:36 "Tell me why you texted me in the first place."
I'd say this is his last chance to make this right. If he'd say that he is sorry now, sorry for texting her in the middle of the night, that he has had a beer to much and still is hurting because how things turned out maybe she could live with that answer. But he just keeps on going:
23:59:02 "Complimenting you. Suddenly thought of your tits and your arse. Beautiful things, them. Nice big handfuls. You had nice lips and you always look fucking good with my cock between them. Still use the same slut-coloured lipstick?"
no subject
And she calls him on it:
00:04:35 "Fuck yourself on a blow-up doll."
She is angry, rightfully so, of course the comparison hurts. And maybe she tosses the phone into a corner after she has typed this and wonders how she ever could have fallen for him and hopefully someone is there to pick up the pieces and tell her that this is all about him and not about her and that he is a fucked up bastard. And convinces her to talk to the police to set an end to this once and for all. And then the next abusive texts won't cast a very positive light onto him.
00:06:11 “Didn't need to. Had you the last time for that, didn't I?”
00:08:12 “You were never particularly tight, though. Remembered you at the bar. Had a train of blokes waiting for you to spread your legs. You with your red lips and fuck me heels.”
00:10:37 “Still remember you on your knees. Men’s WC, getting your bar apron dirty on the floor when you wrapped your mouth around my cock. Told your new boyfriend yet that your mouth and your cunt had Sean Bean in them?”
00:13:24 “You wore that rubber dress of yours for your new man?”
00:14:10: “Have fun with the coppers tomorrow, darling.”
00:16:05 "Never quit that habit, have you?
Now I am angry again. And I so want to be the police officer questioning him about all of this shit. Man.
But you get that I'm this disgusted because this is disgustingly realistic and spot-on, don't you? :)
no subject
Exactly. Exactly that. I love how you pick apart each and every text between them, because honestly? I wrote all this in a sickening rush in which I hated absolutely everything and it just turned out to be poison itself. I literally hate reading this part myself, I think, and there's part of me that's still slightly unbelieving that I'm actually capable of writing something so horrible and disgusting. >_> So none of what I wrote for this particular section is conscious except that I'm trying to keep the violence to words, because I think Sean - at least in this fic - is far better at attacking with words and facial expressions instead of actual physical actions. :3
/hugs tight. Seriously, I told you already, but reading all this made my day so much better. I'm just so, so happy you like this. ♥♥♥!
no subject
And you are so very welcome! :)