
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/464698.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Punk_Rock_RPF, Original_Work
  Relationship:
      Kinda-OMC/OMC
  Character:
      Leech, Justin_(Hollywood)
  Additional Tags:
      Male_Slash, dirtydirtypunkrockporn, PWP, Underage_Character, Recreational
      Drug_Use, D/s, pistol_grip
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-07-20 Words: 2899
****** Pretend We're Dead ******
by nihilism
Summary
     "Don't start cryin', makes me feel bad."
     A sixteen year-old Justin meets a strange man in a dingy punk club.
     Mostly an original work.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Justin wanders into the bathroom, startlingly bright after the dim lights in
the rest of the club. It shocks his irises a bit more, perhaps, because of the
painkillers he'd stole from his mother before coming here. He doesn't like this
brand, they make him sluggish, slower to react to his surroundings. Not like
the morphine; those created a pleasant floating sensation that made being
detatched so much simpler.
Not glancing around the room at all, the boy detours into the first open stall
he sees, closing the door behind him and attempting to lock it. Of course, the
lock was busted long ago. He opts instead to keep one leg bent at the knee,
holding the door behind him closed as he unzips his pants. The walls shake with
the vibration of the music on the other side.
A loud sniff overpowers the dampened noise, and then another. Plainly obvious
to anyone in the vicinity. Justin isn't surprised, after all, lots of people do
drugs in the bathroom of dingy clubs with shitty live bands.
Leech lifts his head, rubbing at his nose and sniffing again. But his eyes are
diverted, to the precariously closed stall door closest to the exit. After the
burning in his nostrils subsides, he slinks closer to said stall curiously. He
bends at the waist, inspecting the single red Converse sneaker and cuffed
pantleg, then straightens back up. Shame, he thinks to himself, that he
couldn't see more. The ass had looked nice going in, from what he could see in
the mirror. Probably better wait and check it out. He leans against the
crumbling counter, directly in front of the stall, and crosses his arms.
The sound of the second shoe joining it's mate on the tile floor is followed by
the sound of the toilet flushing, then a zipper. Justin exits the stall, mildly
surprised at being affronted so suddenly but showing no sign of it as he
glances at the man and then moves to the sink. And that glance tells him all he
needs to know. Dark eyes, placid expression. Pale skin, but not unhealty pale;
likewise thin but not unhealthy thin. Wilting green mohawk that's probably been
up for a few days. Justin turns the sink on and runs his hands under the water.
"'syer name?" Unhealthy voice. Too many cigarettes, drinks, or drugs. Probably
all of the above.
"Justin." Keeps his eyes on his hands as he washes them. Runs those hands
through his hair to dilute the sweat.
"S'nice." Definitely a smirk in the voice; more unhealthy now.
"Right," Justin fights with the paper towel dispenser for a minute, still not
looking up. "Yours?"
"Lee," he answers back. "Most everyone calls me Leech, though."
Justin notes the slight slur and wonders if that's from drug use, too, or just
laziness. "Charming."
Paper towel meets trashcan and Leech looks the kid over. Scrawny, pale, dark
brown hair falling in all directions. General look of a plant that's been too
long deprived of sunlight. Still, there's a certain strength about him - his
stance, the way he carries himself. He has to be young, probably no more than
17, but the cold, careless tones he use don't show it.
Justin turns to find this adversary now leaning against the wall, pleasantly
blocking his exit. He doesn't show any sign of panic because he doesn't feel
any, just a bitter resignation. He sighs.
"School night," this character, this 'Leech', points out to him. "Shouldn' ya
oughta be studyin' like a good little boy?"
My god, Justin muses in disbelief, next he'll be offering candy like a true
molester. Where's the paneled van parked? "Hasn't it been said that nothing
worth learning can be taught, anyway?" The practiced, fluid arch of the left
eyebrow.
"Mmm," Leech smirks in agreement, pushing off the wall and coming closer. Older
though he is, he has to look up to meet Justin's eyes. "S'true. Why don'tcha
come home with me and ya can learn yerself something real good?"
"'Well'," Justin provides automatically. "'Good' is an adjective, not an
adverb."
"An' smart, too! Don't look like ya need to study none, all the more reason ta
come with me."
Justin weighs his options. Go with the Pedopuppy, here (who, in reality, was
likely only a few years his senior), and probably get tortured, molested,
raped, maybe killed. Or go home. Sneering. This is one of those lesser-of-two-
evils things.
"Lead the way."
Leech gives a grin verging on horribly unnerving, but turns and makes his way
out the bathroom. Justin follows casually.
The walk out of the club and to the crumbling, delapidated apartment building
is nothing to be spoken of, and nothing is spoken in the duration. A simple
silence punctuated by the sounds of the streets, two pairs of shoes, and the
hisses of cigarette ashes dying on wet pavement. Not a companionable silence,
but not an uncomfortable one. Leech doesn't have the gall to question why
Justin is still following, nor does Justin have the sense of self-preservation
to ask himself. His life could end right now, and he would be the last to
complain.
Leech leads him through a glass door barred with steel, up a flight of stairs,
then another. Off the landing and down the hall, to a door with a crooked,
rusted-brass number 3 nailed to it, along with the faint outline of another
lost number. He procures a set of keys from his pocket; Justin is surprised the
door even locks.
The apartment is sparsely furnished. A beat-up leather couch, a TV set atop an
old milkcrate, a stack of stereo decks in a cabinet with a mass of carefully
kept vinyl records underneath (the reason, Justin figures, for the door being
locked). The walls are dingy from smoke and there are questionable stains on
the carpet. But Justin doesn't question them, even in his own head.
This is a person and this is his life, no matter how questionable either of
those are in themselves. For all the squalor, the place doesn't have the tense
ambiance Justin dealt with at home and its lack loosens some of the anxiety
pricking the boy's spine.
Leech turns to him and gives him a toothy grin. "Welcome home."
"Might as well be," Justin mutters under his breath. He didn't like that they
were talking again. It was so perfunctory, unnecessary. Left a bitter taste in
his mouth.
"Ya from LA?" Leech is in another room now. A kitchen, divided by a wall with
the nicotine-colored paint flaking off in chips. Justin joins the man, leans
against said wall to observe him.
"Pomona."
Why offer this information?
Why not?
"Ah, suburbian heaven," Leech says mockingly.
He turns and offers Justin a Dixie cup full of amber liquid. Justin takes a
sip, wincing slightly. Whiskey. He's sure he'll learn to love it once he can
disassociate even the smell from his father. Takes another drink.
"Seventeen," the would-be child molester states, rather than asks.
"Sixteen," Justin corrects him.
"Ya run away?"
"For the night." Off-hand, careless words. "They won't notice."
"'course not," Leech says knowingly. "More important things ta worry 'bout,
yeh?"
"Undoubtedly."
Leech smiles to himself. He likes the kid. Not just the way he looks. He likes
the way he moves, unconsciously graceful; likes his clipped but somehow still
articulate manner of speaking; likes the way his eyes narrow everytime he takes
a drink of the whiskey.
"Ya queer?" Leech tilts his head curiously, wondering just how far he could
take this before it turned into something illegal and immoral enough for the
kid to say stop.
Justin doesn't even blink at the blunt inquiry. "Not that I'm aware of."
"Wanna make yerself aware?"
He shrugs again, that noncommittal, conditioned response, then drains the rest
of the whiskey and throws the Dixie cup into a pile of trash in the corner.
"Well, since you asked so nicely, and all..."
Leech grins ferally and throws the remaining contents of his cup into the back
of his throat as well. He turns to Justin and grasps his wrists, pushing him
against the nearest wall and covering the boy's mouth with his own. Justin
tilts his chin up, returning the kiss with just as much ferocity and not even a
trace of hesitance. Leech stretches those arms over the boy's head, pinning the
wrists between one thin hand as it's counterpart crawls down Justin's body to
find the clasp of his belt. He frees it and delves the rouge hand into the
opened pants, searching out the flesh concealed there and manipulating it with
practiced expertise.
Justin bites down on Leech's tounge as his fingertips creep over his cock, the
first sign of surprise he's shown. Regardless, he finds himself hardening under
those very same fingers and sucking on that trapped tongue viciously. Leech
growls his approval, scraping his blunt thumbnail over the head of his dick and
then rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
Justin isn't breathing anymore, he's sure of it. Sure that Leech has sucked the
pain of being alive right out of him as he'd sucked the carcinogens out of all
those cigarettes in the overflowing ashtray nearby. This - this was better than
any form of inebriation, ever. This was being dominated, overpowered. This was
something no squirming, writhing, moaning girl underneath him had ever given,
could ever give him. This was the freedom from making decisions; decisions
whether to live or die, whether to fight back or surrender. And it was fucking
delicious.
The hands remove themselves and Leech steps back, a good foot away. Justin has
the eerie sensation of falling as reality slams him in the face. Panting, he
lifts his bright eyes to meet Leech's.
"Yeh?" Leech questions.
Justin gasps for air, almost inaudible, but he knows he's lost the composure
and detachment for which he strives. "Perhaps, a bit."
That grin again: why had it seemed so unhealthy before? "C'mon." Justin follows
unquestioningly, not even bothering to fix his pants, and Leech leads him into
a darkened bedroom. The only reason he recognizes it's a bedroom is because the
second he steps foot over the threshold, Leech's hands are on his shoulders
again, spinning him around and halfway throwing him onto a bed.
"Stay down," Leech growls when Justin starts to sit up.
He kneels at his feet and unties the shoes, pulling them off along with the
socks and casting them aside. Then he crawls up over Justin predatorially,
letting his fingertips sneak over his hips to push the material off of them and
then over his thighs, finally off of his legs completely. He yanks the shirt
off with another fluid motion and Justin hears it rip, but doesn't find he's
bothered to care. Leech is pulling him up now, against his chest, biting into
his neck. And Justin hears his own voice moaning loudly at those teeth, is
surprised to hear it make such a noise. He tilts his head, pressing the flesh
against Leech's teeth in askance for him to take more. Leech does, almost
snarling, feeding Justin more of that delicious pain and helplessness in
return.
Leech rolls onto his back, pulling Justin on top of him by the skin still
caught between his teeth. He finds those wrists again, this time trapping them
behind Justin's back easily. His teeth finally relent as the opposite hand
skitters down Justin's back with a sort of subdued reverrence, over the curve
of his little ass and then inward. Justin tenses, briefly, inhaling sharply at
the intrusion. Leech coughs out a cackle.
"Don' start cryin, makes me feel bad," he tells Justin in a purely sardonic
voice.
But Justin is far from crying. Because that digit, pressing into a crevice
where Justin never fathomed that they should go, somehow felt right for all the
awkwardness. He hisses an exhalation and presses back against it, Leech cooing
appreciatively at the movement. The finger retreats and then returns, this time
joined by a second. They're ripping him apart in the most unexpectedly pleasant
way and Justin finds himself rocking against Leech. Pressing back, begging
silently for more, then pushing forward. Leech has begun moving with him now,
his own breath coming with half the difficulty of Justin's.
Just as unexpectedly, the intrusion disappears. Justin lifts his head from
where it's fallen against Leech's shoulder, gasping demandingly. Leech releases
the wrists, sliding from underneath Justin. Justin listens to the movement but
can't seem to move himself from where he's sprawled on his stomach on the bed.
The light of a dim yellow bulb, uncovered, reaches his eyes and he closes them
against it.
"This's gunna be too fun ta be kept in the dark." Leech is behind him, forcing
his thighs apart a bit more and situating himself between them. The miscreant
fingers return to their place, this time slicked with an oily substance, and
Justin doesn't look up or question, too grateful for their return. They press
into him, tearing him more and more. He can only moan for the feeling of it.
Harsh, abrasive, demanding attention, something he couldn't just shut out or
ignore. Something he was not, by any means, above.
The unoccupied hand moves to his bony hip, pulling him up off the matress and
to his knees. He follows the instruction, not drawing himself all the way up
but resting forward on his hands. The second hand removes itself and wraps
around Justin's chest, pulling him all the way up and back against Leech.
Justin scarcely has the presence of mind to wonder when he lost his clothes.
Those fingers return to his ass, questing, but this time they don't enter. In
their stead, Leech's cock presses inside of him. He arches his back as he fills
Justin, ripping him even more. And it's gone, he's gone, not a fucking thing
exists or ever has and Justin wants to scream joyously for the evaporation of
it all. Then he realizes he is screaming, and there's that raspy voice in his
ear, purring, praising him for the noise. There are hands stroking his tummy,
softly, reassuring. Justin finds himself wondering how anyone could think to
reassure him in this moment of searing, engulfing, piercing perfection.
He finds himself thrown forward again, catching himself on his palms by
instinct. Leech is still there behind him, kneeling up now, rocking against
Justin's ass. He can feel the movement inside of him, the tissue breaking and
muscles contracting. He squirms back beseechingly, pleading for more, and Leech
gives it to him. He starts to move faster, harder, hands carelessly gripping
the boy's hips as he's tossed back and forth in front of him.
Gasping for air, clawing at the bare matress, grasping for any sense of self.
But it can't be found, not now, and somewhere in his psyche he's thankful for
that. Thoughts aren't being formed well enough to be thankful on a concious
level. Just this pain, this pleasure, this back and forth motion, these things
he has no control over. He's only vaguely aware of the noises Leech is making
behind him as he propells him, heightening in volume and frequency.
Then he's pulled up again, back against that chest. He feels the emptiness as
Leech's cock absconds from his body and feels all the more naked for it,
exposed. A begging whimper leaves the back of his throat, but if the man behind
him hears it he pays no attention. Leech's arms are tight and tense around him
and he can feel the tell-tale shivers of an orgasm run through them. He can do
nothing more than tilt his head back and stare at the ceiling, panting.
In what seems like a matter of seconds he finds himself flipped onto his back.
Leech is still between his legs, leaning over now and making Justin acutely
aware of why he acquired the 'charming' nickname. Sucking, horrendously fierce
and demanding. His thin fingertips find their way into that mohawk, all the
more wilted now, and dig into the glued mass. He knows that his hips are
thrashing wildly but can't recall his brain sending a signal for them to do so,
nor can he stop it. Leech doesn't seem to mind, only continues licking and
drawing at his cock almost desperately. And then Justin feels himself tensing
just as Leech did moments ago. Shaking much more violently than he had. Leech
draws the fluid out of him, nibbling at the source of it to obtain more.
Justin feels as though he's waking up from a very long, restful nap when he
reconnects with reality a moment later. And it's disgusting to find out that it
still exists at all. He glances at Leech, who offers him no solace from the
revelation, calmly laying on his back and smoking. Justin takes a deep breath.
He knows that he's going to have to get up now, or soon in any case. Get
dressed. Head back to the trainstation and his basement and his life and the
unavoidable living that comes with it. It was never pleasant, but inevitable -
being alive like that.
But he knows now that he can escape it, even if only for a while. And armed
with that knowledge, he suspects the rest might be just a bit simpler to
ignore.
End Notes
     Leech is an original character that seems to weasel his way into just
     about every fandom I write. Justin is based off a certain bandmember
     in a certain little-known punk band that is unfortunately no longer
     together; you can see more of him in some of my other stories, too.
     This piece has no plot (as undoubtedly has been noticed) but served
     as a sort of introduction to Leech and prequel to a series of short
     fanfics about that punk band, which will be uploaded sometime. Please
     leave comments if you enjoyed reading this, or hated reading this, or
     were ambivalent about reading this but feel the need to offer a
     review.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
