Way of the Gun
Jan. 5th, 2007 12:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
knights_say_nihThe semi-complete, largely filthy, totally innapropriate fic that comes from watching a movie with two actors you have substantial crushes on playing opposite each other.
Would like to note- Parker comes across weaker than he actually is, because that's how Longbaugh's seeing him.
Series of drabbles, more than a fic, actually. Hmmm.
Rated R for slash and violence.
Young, so fucking young he couldn’t begin to imagine what had twisted the kid up (except for the parts he knew, the parts he gasped in his sleep in the back of the truck, feet braced against the window and long legs falling every which way) this badly, bad enough to have him in a car on the road with someone like Longbaugh. Sleeping near someone like Longbaugh. Only ever. Parker only ever talked in his sleep when he knew Longbaugh was watching out. He’d shut his eyes and go out like a light anywhere, any time, learned from years on the road and not enough sleep ever so you steal it where you can, the way you steal money from a convenience store. No matter what, you’ll always need more.
One time Longbaugh passed out from blood loss in the middle of a robbery, without a cut on him but a needle mark in his arm. One of those days after they’d had to donate twice five blocks from each other under different names. When it does, Parker tosses him into the back seat of the car (a posh little convertible they’d picked up illegally) and drives off without the money, firing over his shoulder. Longbaugh wakes up half an hour later with a sore neck, a leg hanging out the open door of the car and more food next to him than he’s seen in a long time. Food bank stuff, you can tell by the way its all non-perishable. Longbaugh hates the food bank. He’s so hungry he really can’t care, and has to force himself to eat the bread slowly so he doesn’t make himself sick.
Longbaugh hated food banks, and hates every kind of charity that they never stop at along the way. Hates the pitying looks they get and the way all of them look at them and don’t judge but always assume. Parker doesn’t mind, in fact, the opposite. His eyes get a little softer and his mouth quirks in a desperate sort of sad smile, and he plays every individual they come across to the hilt. So Longbaugh doesn’t hate food banks entirely, he likes watching Parker do his thing. But still, he usually doesn’t eat what they pick up there, and usually doesn’t want to drive the next day, so the price they’ve saved is the same as what they pay in the end, and the rush of Parker doing his thing is wiped out neatly by the kicked puppy thing. To be fair it’s not really a kicked puppy thing, it’s just a little step back he takes that means they’re quiet in the bad way instead of the good the next day. That Parker doesn’t sleep in the back seat, and at night, he doesn’t talk. It’s worse, because Longbaugh can’t even blame him for taking it so badly. Since it’s his fault, and they’re both too polite (fuck that) or good at this to say.
It had been two low, one high, went the knock on the door and Parker says ‘hold’ which means he’s not going to be able to get to the string fast enough to stop him coming through the door in a second to face one big, wet, explosion full of death. The gun’s rigged, it always is, and it takes seven point nine seconds for the word ‘move’ to come, which means he wasn’t dressed though why the fuck the kid cares, with a body like that, Longbaugh doesn’t know.
Things were bad, as they often were, when he toyed with him. They’d been selling again, another fucking questionnaire that you know is pointless because what the fuck do the examiners care if you’re a granola crunching communist who routinely molests koala bears so long as your teeth are good and there’s no history of mental illness? Slip into the bathroom and jerk off into a cup, same old same old. Play the game they always do afterwards.
“…Jenna Jameson.”
“Too plastic.”
“Heidi Klum?”
“Fuck that shit, man.”
“I don’t know, Julia smiley Roberts?”
“Forfeit?”
“Sure.”
“You, sugar.”
Parker chokes and has to spit a coughed up mouthful of his hamburger out the window.
“The fuck?”
“That, and Pamela Anderson.”
“Fucker.”
It had been hot, and sudden, pressed against each other, Parker’s back to the wall and gunfire ringing in their ears. Against each other, Longbaugh looking to the side so he could almost imagine he didn’t know what the expression on Parker’s face would be. Pressed against his chin, a gun, forcing him to look anyways. Like he’s been slapped in bed (he’d be gentle, until he got those sweet sounds out of him, the ones that Parker only made when he knew he was alone and Longbaugh was lucky enough to have caught. One of two privacies left between them. Parker doesn’t wander around naked and doesn’t let go when he jerks off and thinks Longbaugh might hear.) Imagine those eyes looking up at him, those cheeks hollowed. He feels like a heel, Parker’s lip clutched between his teeth and his eyes hurting and Longbaugh with the dirtiest damned porn playing in his imagination.
He thinks he probably has a problem.
Would like to note- Parker comes across weaker than he actually is, because that's how Longbaugh's seeing him.
Series of drabbles, more than a fic, actually. Hmmm.
Rated R for slash and violence.
Young, so fucking young he couldn’t begin to imagine what had twisted the kid up (except for the parts he knew, the parts he gasped in his sleep in the back of the truck, feet braced against the window and long legs falling every which way) this badly, bad enough to have him in a car on the road with someone like Longbaugh. Sleeping near someone like Longbaugh. Only ever. Parker only ever talked in his sleep when he knew Longbaugh was watching out. He’d shut his eyes and go out like a light anywhere, any time, learned from years on the road and not enough sleep ever so you steal it where you can, the way you steal money from a convenience store. No matter what, you’ll always need more.
One time Longbaugh passed out from blood loss in the middle of a robbery, without a cut on him but a needle mark in his arm. One of those days after they’d had to donate twice five blocks from each other under different names. When it does, Parker tosses him into the back seat of the car (a posh little convertible they’d picked up illegally) and drives off without the money, firing over his shoulder. Longbaugh wakes up half an hour later with a sore neck, a leg hanging out the open door of the car and more food next to him than he’s seen in a long time. Food bank stuff, you can tell by the way its all non-perishable. Longbaugh hates the food bank. He’s so hungry he really can’t care, and has to force himself to eat the bread slowly so he doesn’t make himself sick.
Longbaugh hated food banks, and hates every kind of charity that they never stop at along the way. Hates the pitying looks they get and the way all of them look at them and don’t judge but always assume. Parker doesn’t mind, in fact, the opposite. His eyes get a little softer and his mouth quirks in a desperate sort of sad smile, and he plays every individual they come across to the hilt. So Longbaugh doesn’t hate food banks entirely, he likes watching Parker do his thing. But still, he usually doesn’t eat what they pick up there, and usually doesn’t want to drive the next day, so the price they’ve saved is the same as what they pay in the end, and the rush of Parker doing his thing is wiped out neatly by the kicked puppy thing. To be fair it’s not really a kicked puppy thing, it’s just a little step back he takes that means they’re quiet in the bad way instead of the good the next day. That Parker doesn’t sleep in the back seat, and at night, he doesn’t talk. It’s worse, because Longbaugh can’t even blame him for taking it so badly. Since it’s his fault, and they’re both too polite (fuck that) or good at this to say.
It had been two low, one high, went the knock on the door and Parker says ‘hold’ which means he’s not going to be able to get to the string fast enough to stop him coming through the door in a second to face one big, wet, explosion full of death. The gun’s rigged, it always is, and it takes seven point nine seconds for the word ‘move’ to come, which means he wasn’t dressed though why the fuck the kid cares, with a body like that, Longbaugh doesn’t know.
Things were bad, as they often were, when he toyed with him. They’d been selling again, another fucking questionnaire that you know is pointless because what the fuck do the examiners care if you’re a granola crunching communist who routinely molests koala bears so long as your teeth are good and there’s no history of mental illness? Slip into the bathroom and jerk off into a cup, same old same old. Play the game they always do afterwards.
“…Jenna Jameson.”
“Too plastic.”
“Heidi Klum?”
“Fuck that shit, man.”
“I don’t know, Julia smiley Roberts?”
“Forfeit?”
“Sure.”
“You, sugar.”
Parker chokes and has to spit a coughed up mouthful of his hamburger out the window.
“The fuck?”
“That, and Pamela Anderson.”
“Fucker.”
It had been hot, and sudden, pressed against each other, Parker’s back to the wall and gunfire ringing in their ears. Against each other, Longbaugh looking to the side so he could almost imagine he didn’t know what the expression on Parker’s face would be. Pressed against his chin, a gun, forcing him to look anyways. Like he’s been slapped in bed (he’d be gentle, until he got those sweet sounds out of him, the ones that Parker only made when he knew he was alone and Longbaugh was lucky enough to have caught. One of two privacies left between them. Parker doesn’t wander around naked and doesn’t let go when he jerks off and thinks Longbaugh might hear.) Imagine those eyes looking up at him, those cheeks hollowed. He feels like a heel, Parker’s lip clutched between his teeth and his eyes hurting and Longbaugh with the dirtiest damned porn playing in his imagination.
He thinks he probably has a problem.
