A/N: This drabble/one shot thing was supposed to be fluff, but it really isn't. Sorry. But do enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. It's all Lisi's.
Dedications: This is to Angela (Lost in the Starlight) for encouraging me to write fluff (though this really isn't.). And thank you for beta-ing, Angie!
Warnings: This is rated mature for a few too many expletives, drug use, and a little bit of suggested "sexual interaction."
;;;
Every single, little note of charm and compassion in him had been tweaked or snapped. He had fallen from the graces of every girl in his proximity and was racing precariously to the edges of insanity. His mind, his heart was in tiny, bloody vessels strewn across the trail of unrest he had left.
(And it was messy.)
He had broken a few too many hearts, shattered them and crushed them into pretty, microscopic ashes. And then he had blown them with his full lips across the plains of heartbreak, and he never gave a fuck.
He didn't want to give a fuck now. He had tried to reason with himself that he didn't care about a fiery redhead that smelled of grease and cherry perfume and fresh laundry but his heart-the fucking traitor-was stretching and aching for a match. And it apparently wanted Dylan Marvil.
;;;
She had him enamored after snapping that the Strokes were just a bunch of wannabe Brits that had music not worth a shit, and he should move on to bigger and greater bands. He supposed he should have been offended. But the fact of her chewing sloppily on a taco while advising this tidbit gave him a bit of a shock.
(And a good one at that.)
He had never been the type to turn down such a vigorous challenge.
;;;
He had seen her dancing and flirting and touching Cam-his own fucking brother. He had never felt anger or jealousy or whatever it was (It was like a tsunami of emotions that cut him to the core.) in such a thick, unadulterated rush.
He drove fast and hard down the slick road and away from that place; he wasn't going to make a mistake and sever the steadfast bond he had with his brother.
He hit a telephone pole going sixty with his beloved Mustang. He realized that she was a curse. She was enwrapping him with her peculiar but hypnotizing scent and teasing him with her thick, crimson curls. And-fuck-he couldn't take it.
;;;
He vied-almost competed-for her attention, but it seemed as if she would never even flutter her lashes for him.
He was pissed. He trashed his room, trashed Cam's, fucked a few girls, shot up some heroin.
(He didn't need-didn't want-to go back to this-to the drugs and intoxication. But she was driving him so fucking crazy.)
;;;
She was fleeing from him, and her knowing looks gave him the impression that she knew about his infatuation. But what was he to do? She had him on his knees with his balls cuddled and clenched in her hand. And he was clueless on how to go about her.
He spent an entire assembly with his friends and her beloved, little clique, gazing mesmerized at her pink, pink lips; they weren't full or flawless like her shallow, imperfect friends but they were exciting and thinner and.. intoxicating. Just like her.
She was fuller than other girls in Westchester, and he'd admit how much his breathing quickened and how much his body ached when he thought about her and her exquisite body. He had never felt-never fucked-a full-figured girl before. And-damn-he was definitely not cut off to the idea now.
;;;
She winked at him. He was cruising down the street, blasting the Arctic Monkeys (As he had heard that she loved them.) when her curved shape rounded the curb. Her vibrant curls were bouncing up and down, swaying gently to the capricious rhythm of the wind. His breath caught, and his heart began to swell and pump rapidly.
Shit.
(He needed to see her.)
The stop sign approached his view, and he screeched to an abrupt halt, the disturbing sound broadcasting across the grand city of Westchester. Despite the raucous noise, she slowly moved her head around.
Her eyes were the color of deep moss and just as unpredictable and beautiful. They flicked across his own wide, green eyes to his disheveled dark hair then to his chapped lips. Her eyes lazily moved back up to his own widened orbs and with a flutter of her eyelashes, one oval eye flicked close. She giggled and turned on one foot, clumsily jogging down the street in her forest green shoes.
(His heart rose farther than before, and he knew that this was going too far.)
;;;
She flirted with him. Her hands had been tangled in her own fiery hair, and her eyes had appeared disinterested, but he knew girls' games. Her voice was low and sultry, her mouth busily sucking on a mint, occasionally tonguing it out for him to see, but her deep, intelligent eyes (She was smarter than he had credited her to be.) were glued to his shoulders.
(Was she scared of him? Was she afraid of what she what find there in his eyes?)
She wouldn't leave the room with him. He was glad. He would've done something that he would have regretted. And she wouldn't have been able to resist him.
His friends jeered at him (Where was the selfish guy that had trashed and ruined and fucked up lives? Who was this pussy?). He flicked them the infamous finger, and they left him to his self-torturing thoughts. But they talked. Her little fucking clique talked. They smirked, and she smirked, her pretty eyes lighting up with awareness and curiosity.
(Did the flirting mean nothing? Was she being used as some sort of karma for all the hearts he had stomped on?)
;;;
She texted him a week later. He had been at the school under the bleaches, rolling a joint (just like old days) when his ragged jeans had vibrated. He abandoned the lit joint to a point under his foot and crushed it, the exhausted fumes hazing around his head.
(This is what he had been missing. Why had he ever gave it up? For her? For a redhead that didn't give a fuck about him?)
He had rolled open his phone, grudgingly, seeing as his senses were hazy, and his eyes were beginning to droop.
Dylan Marvil: still like the strokes, dickhead?
Shit. He ran a wary hand through his hair and picked the joint up, needing another pull. Damn! He had already snuffed it.
Harris Fisher: y do u care bitch?
He dropped his phone on a little slat of wood and whipped out his crafty, neon lighter. He torched it and watched the sparks fly up and wreathe around his head. The acrid smell poured through his nostrils and through his veins as if some new form of deoxygenating medicine. He could almost feel it wrapping around his heart and squeezingsqueezingsqueezing; there was the euphoric feel of it slithering into his lungs until there was none of the beloved oxygen left. Maybe it would kill him.
;;;
He awoke with his drool sliding a sticky trail down his cheek and onto the concrete, and the joint lying loose in his sweaty palm. His head hurt (throbbingthrobbingthrobbing), and his mouth was painfully dry and hoarse and tasted terribly foul.
(Of course, he was sold some bad grass. Nothing had been going right lately.)
A blinding light flashed across his squinted vision (Was he dead?); he drudgingly rolled over.
She was standing close to the bleaches, bared of all clothes, her pale, milky skin glowing in the dawn lighting. He gasped and blinked hard and fast, but she was gone.
(Weed always did do things to his mind.)
He could barely remember his own name as he stumbled to his car, abandoning the joint and the remains of his melted phone. His heart, his mind felt like his incinerated cell. He was melting under her flaming torch, and he couldn't jump or leap away. Not this time.
(But he didn't think that he wanted to.)
;;;
He was in his bed, and he could literally feel her over him. Her curls were tickling his bare chest, and her hot breath was moist on his cheeks. He opened his eyes to a slit and stared at the yellowing ceiling and the neon stars on the wall.
(She would always be an illusion.)
The phone was ringing; he ignored it, his ears deaf to such nuisances. He needed to get away from the girl that was breaking his heart. He needed out.
;;;
She left him messages. Her husky voice sounded over the voicemail, rapid and breathless, asking if he wanted to hangout sometime and listen to real music. He ignored all of them and strode out of the house, making his way to his refurbished Mustang.
The familiar need was back; he had discarded his old habits, but they were back (And merciless), and he needed them more than ever.
He slammed into his car. He wanted to bang, to crush his head through the window, but he resisted. He had done it before, and he needn't do it again.
(But maybe it would help.)
;;;
She kissed him. He was under the bleachers again, not high this time but with his weed at ready, when a clumsily beautiful body approached him. The day was hot, and he didn't recognize her at first. He motioned lazily to her and patted the concrete next to him, sliding the delicate, heated bong into his pocket.
(A quick fuck and he would send her on her merry way.)
She sat down but not close and when she spoke, his heart jumped and began to gravitate and tug towards her.
(It was her.)
He flinched backwards. He had sworn not to get so close, but yet her scent was washing over him-she smelled so damn good-and her round face was furrowed and squinted into invisible lines. He had never thought that worrying could be attractive.
(He was wrong.)
He couldn't look at her, wouldn't speak to her. Her voice became more insistent, her moist breath rapidly descending on his cheek as she settled closer and closer to him. Her voice ascended, and her hands began to yank on his shoulders.
She commenced to shouting his name, but he only altered his body from her. Her hand was wrapped tightly around his own, jerking desperately at him.
He mumbled for her to let him go, that it was no use. She screamed in his ear that she wanted so badly to know why he never looked at her anymore, or why he always looked disgusted around her. Why did he hate her so much? How could he be so mean?
(If she only knew what she put him through.)
He chuckled at her false assumptions. He couldn't tell her the fucking truth. His body was turned from her, but she was cinched to his back; he was aching-and shit-it was painful. He groaned and tried to push her off. She straddled him (Holy. Shit.) and slapped his face. Her brilliant eyes were hovering in front of him, and her extraordinary lips were swirling delectably around in his mind.
(The sting in his cheek was forgotten.)
And just like that, her exotic mouth was on his, and the joint in his pocket didn't-couldn't-make him as delirious and excited as her lips were.
Her hands were tangled in his messy hair, and the smell of an old burrito and mint overrode his taste buds. And-fuck-she was driving him crazy with her mouth. Her tongue was carving its way along his lips and darting to his gaping mouth but never daring to enter. His hands were roaming her body, and she pressed into him, daring him to go further.
He gasped and attempted to push her away, but as the firecracker she was, his attempts were futile. He growled as her tongue found his earlobe.
(He needed to be careful with her.)
He pushed her off his lap and down on her back. She arched towards him; he stared into her pleading eyes and knew that he couldn't leave her like this.
He begged her to leave while she still could. There would only be heartbreak and drugs and too much pain from this moment, but her cherubic face shook rapidly back and forth, her curls bouncing and plastering to her head. A cool sheen of sweat lay over her, and he licked and sucked a tender spot on her neck, inhaling the musky wetness with anticipation. She writhed beneath him, her voluptuous form curling and pressing tightly to his body, only causing further arousal.
(Don't hurt her.)
He couldn't do it. He couldn't fuck her out here, under the bleachers where too much meaningless sex had already happened. He couldn't make her his here. There were too many unpleasant memories, and she didn't fit there, not in this puzzle. She was too quirky and special and unlike other girls and-shit-he ached for her, but he couldn't do it.
(He wouldn't.)
;;;
She was mad at him. She had stormed away and swatted at him when he had tried to hold her.
(She was perfect.)
She told him to fuck off any time he edged close to her, even in front of her supposed friends. He could handle the temporary rejection now. He saw the longing sparkle in her eyes, the moistening of her lips, and the jittery behavior, light and catch fire when he was near.
(He would have her.)
She fought against him when he pursued. But she could do nothing trapped in a locker room with him. He had her in his grasp; her green, green eyes were on fire with rage though her body was doused in a thin film of sweat and heat, a bittersweet betrayal of her true feelings.
She was panting hard against him and growling that this-she-was just another challenge for sex to him and that he should stop fucking with her mind.
He sucked on her neck and laughed spitefully, murmuring how wrong she was about him and how he felt.
(Damn! It slipped.)
She gasped and tore away, her eyes wide and surprised, and a dark flush fanning across her cheeks. He averted his crystallized eyes from hers and gently pushed her away.
He laughed nervously and touched her breast; her stinging slap against his cheek, signaled how unhappy and unsatisfied she was.
He caught her swinging fists and penned them behind her head and tearfully whispered that it would never work between them.
Her scream of frustration and need stabbed him deep and hard-so fucking hard-, and he could feel his heart shattering and bursting and screaming at him to stop such nonsense. Because he loved her. He loved her more than his joint, his heroin and even his parents. He loved her more than Cam-and shit-that hurt.
(He didn't want to love her that much-not more than his family.)
He ran his hand through her thick, resistant curls and brought her against him. And he whispered that he loved her, and that it couldn't work. He was too fucked up. It was as simple as that.
(His heart was overcome by a bout of angina.)
Her eyes were brimming with tears, and they were let loose on his shoulder, the wetness staining his Polo, her arms wrapped around him, her sobbing gasps tearing through him.
(How was she so hurt?)
She begged him, pleaded with him to not let this go yet. He began to protest, but was stifled by her desperate mouth.
This time, it was her hands that was roaming every single inch of his body. Clawing at his clothes, she was going to take him.
(He told her that this wasn't the time, but he let her innocent hands have their fun.)
;;;
Their first time was under the shimmering stars outside of his bedroom window. It wasn't short and sweet but rather rough and passionate, and she gave him no mercy. He couldn't be gentle with her; she wasn't gentle with him.
She cried afterwards, yelling at him through ripping sobs. Why couldn't it have been sweet?
(She had been a fucking virgin, and he had not been careful nor considerate of her.)
He frantically kissed her rosy cheeks and shining eyes and cherry red lips; he couldn't lose her over a rough first time. She shoved him away and awkwardly dressed and stormed away, her cornflower blue sundress swaying in the light breeze.
(He couldn't chase her now. The guilt was too great.)
;;;
He returned to his heroin. The weed wasn't cutting it. He snatched his heroin stash from beneath his bed, the vinegar-like odor rolling through his senses as he opened the clasp. His syringe was immediately uncapped and sterilized. His spoon was at ready, and the heroin laid upon it as he withdrew his lighter and unleashed it under the spoon. The cotton swab was inserted on top and pressed tightly to the stash as he inserted his needle and withdrew the heroin.
After a quick swipe across the soft bend in his arm with an alcohol swab and a tap to the thin syringe, he inserted the needle through his skin, the stinging pain clenching his eyes.
(It felt good, and it helped him in its own malicious way. Yet it couldn't compare to her.)
He became reckless and rapidly inserted the heroin. Instead of the quick, bloody rush and the bliss, a heated burn came.
Shit.
(He had forgotten to ensure that the needle was lined inside of his vein.)
He would have a fucking blister the size of Jupiter, and he wouldn't get a high until hours, nor would it be a good one. She was ruining him, shattering what used to be important to him.
(And he was thankful.)
;;;
She came to him. His little high had come and gone quick, and the depression was back full force, tearing him apart, vein by vein. The pain was excruciatingly mounting, but his desire and want for her was overpowering the rest .
He was lying spread-eagled on his plush bed. Cool breath caressed his face, and a slim hand tentatively stroked his chest. A warm rag was slid over his forehead, and a gentle kiss was laid on his clammy cheek.
(But it couldn't be..)
He whispered her name hopefully but with dread (What if it was his mom?); a breathy "hush" was murmured in his ear. Despite his weak state, he was elated.
(She was here.)
She instructed him to sleep, and tapped on one of his favorite Strokes song. He eyed her in disbelief and questioned how she knew, if she thought the Strokes were a piece of "shit." She merely shrugged, but he didn't miss the slight smile on her face as she turned away.
(Was this her plan all along?)
;;;
She told him that she wanted to be with him. He was outside, fidgeting and quivering, in his Mustang, fingering the full syringe of heroin in his outstretched palm. His mouth was full of saliva; he needed it. Now.
He had not seen her since that brilliantly drowsy night, and the nostalgia was back along with the drive for moremoremore. The needle shook in his hands as he shakily pushed his disheveled hair back.
Tears were on his face, and he wasn't sure how they got there. They were streaming down his face and pooling on the thin syringe in his palm. His consent was given, and they fell, hard and fast. And all he could fucking think about was her.
(Why was she doing this to him?)
He sat there, silent tears pouring, syringe held still in his hand, and didn't move. A sharp rap on his window didn't break his reverie, nor did the jiggling of his treasured Mustang's handle.
(Who cares?)
Someone was screaming his name and through the window, his ears seemed to perk up. It was her. God-he was so fucking tired of this light, joyous feeling he got when he was around her. She only crushed and stomped and shit on it-on him.
But he unlocked his door anyway. He heard her trip and grinned-so genuinely-for the first time he had in a long time.
She was back at the car door: her loud, red hair was messy-but not purposely so-, her emerald eyes were wide and desperate and needing, her fair skin was a deep, melted red, and orange freckles stood out in her flaming face. She pulled on the handle, ripping the door open, and jumped in, snatching the syringe out of his hand. She then proceeded to heave it out of the door; she leapt up and swept across the pavement and with her trusty, green pumps, crushed the delicate syringe.
He looked on in amusement but not without some irritation.
(He needed that. He needed it if she left him hanging.. again.)
She strode to him, hands on curvy hips and stomped into his car and onto his lap, eyes flicking from his mop of a hair to his sallow complexion to his swollen and shallow orbs. Her anger visibly faded, and she laid a consoling hand on his sweaty, damp face. Tears broached her eyes, and her thin hands twisted in her lap.
He stared at her with confusion. What was she thinking? Her enticing mouth neared his ear, her breath coming in short gasps. And then she whispered, right there in his fucking ear, that she cared for him, and if something happened to him, she was positive that she would never be the same.
(Yes.)
He gently tilted her freckled chin up and ran one long finger along the rim of her jaw, creating a visible line of goosebumps.
;;;
Her eyes delved deep into his own as he laid her down on his scarlet bed and took her. This time was sweet and gentle and sweaty and rewarding. She cried in his broad arms afterwards, and thanked him repeatedly until he was stifling her mouth with kisses.
(There had been a lot of tears lately.)
And she whispered yet again how much she cared for him. She loved him. He took her naked form into his own and kissed over her feverish face affectionately. He victoriously and breathlessly whispered that she was finally his.
;;;
Harris Fisher had finally gotten what he had thought he would never have.
Dylan Marvil.
They were a dysfunctional couple, but-shit-they loved each other too damn much. Fight after fight ended with frantic kisses and apologies and night after night, they laid tangle and intertwined with each other.
He wasn't perfect, and neither was she. His beloved heroin beckoned to him daily, and her flirtatious ways often smashed their union to tiny little pieces.
But they loved each other-and dammit-they weren't going to give it up.
And-in their eyes-they were perfect and holy together, and nothing was ever tearing them apart.
;;;
A/N: I hope it wasn't overwhelmingly confusing. And I hope I did Dylan/Harris (crack!) justice. Reviews would really help.