Noah Jett Fitzaptrick (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maybethatsalie) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2013-12-28 02:36 am
maybethatsalie) wrote in muserevival2013-12-28 02:36 am
Entry tags:
049.5. Misc/Random
"Let's talk about sex."
CONTAINS TRIGGERING CONTENT
It was so cold and so dark. But it wasn't quiet. New York was never quiet, no matter how much you sometimes wanted it to all just shut up. The noises could be terrifying. Gunshots. Screams. Ambulances. Shouting. It was a dark back alley and Noah was standing there, leaning back against the wall, foot resting against the bricks. One hand was shoved deep in the pocket of his flimsy jacket while the other held a cigarette to his lips where he took a quick, sharp but shaky drag on it and the smoke was soon blown out in a long stream that condensed in the freezing night air.
He looked up the alley to where the road cross and he heard a loud group of people walking up it and laughing. There wasn't a single part what his life had become that he liked. There wasn't a single part of himself that he liked either. It was purely about survival now. The septic epicentre of it all was that he didn't know how to survive without drugs. They always took precedent over everything else. Over eating, over alcohol. Drinking helped keep him warm and it numbed a lot, but with more and more people questioning his fake ID these days, he was getting scared to go into the shitty rundown liquor stores to get their cheapest piss on offer. Alcohol was a luxury, as far as he was concerned. If it was a choice between food, booze, or drugs, it was always the drugs that won.
He was shivering all over and he was forced to push away from the wall to move on the spot to try to keep the circulation in his legs. Jeans didn't insulate a hell of a lot. The cold just sliced right through the denim. It didn't help that he had lost a hell of a lot of weight since getting here. He couldn't remember the last proper meal he had eaten. Diet Coke and a bag of crisps two nights ago was about it. But he wasn't going to think about food, because that just made him hungry.
That was when the seller arrived. He was a disgusting looking guy, and he reeked of body odour and stale booze. He wouldn't have seen a shower in at least a week, nor his clothes a washing machine. Neither were things Noah could judge on. He gave a jerky nod of greeting in his direction and stubbed the remnants of his cigarette out on the wall. "You got the shit?" he asked bluntly, digging in his pocket for the cash that he finally collected enough of with busking the whole week. These sorts of things, there was never much conversation. The guy was leering at him, waving the little plastic baggie tauntingly close to his face.
He only just managed to stifle an aggravated huff of frustration. He fucking needed this shit. He couldn't live without it. He offered the cash over and reached for the baggie, but it was yanked out of his reach and the crumpled cash notes knocked roughly out of his hand. "Get on ya' fuckin' knees, ya' pretty boy cunt! Always the pretty ones that suck dick for an ounce like the worthless piles of shit ya' are! Get on ya' fuckin' knees!" he growled and roughly grabbed at Noah's lips. "Good fuckin' cock suckin' lips ya' got too. Suck my fuckin' dick and then bend over! I wanna take ya' right up the fuckin' arse and ream ya' into fuckin' next week, cock sucker!"
Noah was pushed hard to ground, feeling his knees scrape on the rough surface. He feel into a grimy puddle which had a used condom floating in it and he had narrowly missed landing on an unsheathed syringe. "No! Get the fuck off me! I don't put out for shit!" he made the mistake of spitting back, the aggression of withdrawal already kicking in for him. He didn't like feeling aggressive, but he had no control over it when the cravings were eating him alive inside out. He reached up and elbowed the seller in the dick but it just wasn't hard enough to do anything and even though he doubled over, it wasn't for long before he recovered and was about five hundred times more angry than he had been a few moments ago.
Noah's hair was grabbed and the guy twisted his fingers painfully in it, nails scraping against his scalp. With the grip, he slammed Noah's head back against the wall and then started to beat the shit out of him. "No--" Noah protested weakly. "N-No-- stop!"
"NO STOP!" he screamed hoarsely and woke up abruptly, sitting up in the bed he had been sleeping in. He was drenched in sweat, almost like he had just gotten out of a swimming pool and his ears were ringing, just compounding on how much his head was so sore, it felt like his brain was being drilled out his ears. His breath was coming in short, sharp pants and then he was coughing terribly, hunching over and trying to peel himself out of the tangle of damp covers knotted up around him. The room was dark, just like that alley had been, but suddenly a soft light bathed the room, but Noah hardly noticed with the tears that had welled in his eyes from the exertion of the hacking cough. He was terrified and when a hand came to rest on his arm, he gave a rasped scream of terror and was cowering away from it.
"It's just a nightmare, lad. Take it easy. Ya' safe. Promise ya', ya' safe. It's okay..."
The Irish accent again, and Noah looked to where a large tattooed hand was rested on his arm with some gentle, soothing strokes. He wasn't in the back alley. He wasn't being beaten up for not putting out for a miniscule amount of Coke. He was in a home, in a warm bed, with soft blankets and someone that was here trying to show him he was safe and not being hurt. He met the dark eyes only briefly, but gratefully, before he was in breathless coughing fits again that were igniting a panic inside him. He had felt a lot of pain these past few years, but nothing quite matched the feeling of not being able to breathe. He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy. He was going to be sick again. The contracting sensation in his stomach and diaphragm was being triggered by the coughing, only this time instead of throwing up all over the Irishman's feet again, he found himself with a bucket covered in cartoon characters unceremoniously shoved under his head. He was conscious of the fact his head was being held and then another long-suffering sarcastic comment of, "Aye, ya' lucky I ain't the paranoid type, kid. I'd be pukin' lookin' at me ugly mug too..."
Noah was too distressed to pause and understand what was happening here, but he was grateful for the comfort nonetheless.
Noah Cameron :: Original Character
( super thanks tolovesguinness for being a great sparring partner and letting me borrow their muse here )
It was so cold and so dark. But it wasn't quiet. New York was never quiet, no matter how much you sometimes wanted it to all just shut up. The noises could be terrifying. Gunshots. Screams. Ambulances. Shouting. It was a dark back alley and Noah was standing there, leaning back against the wall, foot resting against the bricks. One hand was shoved deep in the pocket of his flimsy jacket while the other held a cigarette to his lips where he took a quick, sharp but shaky drag on it and the smoke was soon blown out in a long stream that condensed in the freezing night air.
He looked up the alley to where the road cross and he heard a loud group of people walking up it and laughing. There wasn't a single part what his life had become that he liked. There wasn't a single part of himself that he liked either. It was purely about survival now. The septic epicentre of it all was that he didn't know how to survive without drugs. They always took precedent over everything else. Over eating, over alcohol. Drinking helped keep him warm and it numbed a lot, but with more and more people questioning his fake ID these days, he was getting scared to go into the shitty rundown liquor stores to get their cheapest piss on offer. Alcohol was a luxury, as far as he was concerned. If it was a choice between food, booze, or drugs, it was always the drugs that won.
He was shivering all over and he was forced to push away from the wall to move on the spot to try to keep the circulation in his legs. Jeans didn't insulate a hell of a lot. The cold just sliced right through the denim. It didn't help that he had lost a hell of a lot of weight since getting here. He couldn't remember the last proper meal he had eaten. Diet Coke and a bag of crisps two nights ago was about it. But he wasn't going to think about food, because that just made him hungry.
That was when the seller arrived. He was a disgusting looking guy, and he reeked of body odour and stale booze. He wouldn't have seen a shower in at least a week, nor his clothes a washing machine. Neither were things Noah could judge on. He gave a jerky nod of greeting in his direction and stubbed the remnants of his cigarette out on the wall. "You got the shit?" he asked bluntly, digging in his pocket for the cash that he finally collected enough of with busking the whole week. These sorts of things, there was never much conversation. The guy was leering at him, waving the little plastic baggie tauntingly close to his face.
He only just managed to stifle an aggravated huff of frustration. He fucking needed this shit. He couldn't live without it. He offered the cash over and reached for the baggie, but it was yanked out of his reach and the crumpled cash notes knocked roughly out of his hand. "Get on ya' fuckin' knees, ya' pretty boy cunt! Always the pretty ones that suck dick for an ounce like the worthless piles of shit ya' are! Get on ya' fuckin' knees!" he growled and roughly grabbed at Noah's lips. "Good fuckin' cock suckin' lips ya' got too. Suck my fuckin' dick and then bend over! I wanna take ya' right up the fuckin' arse and ream ya' into fuckin' next week, cock sucker!"
Noah was pushed hard to ground, feeling his knees scrape on the rough surface. He feel into a grimy puddle which had a used condom floating in it and he had narrowly missed landing on an unsheathed syringe. "No! Get the fuck off me! I don't put out for shit!" he made the mistake of spitting back, the aggression of withdrawal already kicking in for him. He didn't like feeling aggressive, but he had no control over it when the cravings were eating him alive inside out. He reached up and elbowed the seller in the dick but it just wasn't hard enough to do anything and even though he doubled over, it wasn't for long before he recovered and was about five hundred times more angry than he had been a few moments ago.
Noah's hair was grabbed and the guy twisted his fingers painfully in it, nails scraping against his scalp. With the grip, he slammed Noah's head back against the wall and then started to beat the shit out of him. "No--" Noah protested weakly. "N-No-- stop!"
"NO STOP!" he screamed hoarsely and woke up abruptly, sitting up in the bed he had been sleeping in. He was drenched in sweat, almost like he had just gotten out of a swimming pool and his ears were ringing, just compounding on how much his head was so sore, it felt like his brain was being drilled out his ears. His breath was coming in short, sharp pants and then he was coughing terribly, hunching over and trying to peel himself out of the tangle of damp covers knotted up around him. The room was dark, just like that alley had been, but suddenly a soft light bathed the room, but Noah hardly noticed with the tears that had welled in his eyes from the exertion of the hacking cough. He was terrified and when a hand came to rest on his arm, he gave a rasped scream of terror and was cowering away from it.
"It's just a nightmare, lad. Take it easy. Ya' safe. Promise ya', ya' safe. It's okay..."
The Irish accent again, and Noah looked to where a large tattooed hand was rested on his arm with some gentle, soothing strokes. He wasn't in the back alley. He wasn't being beaten up for not putting out for a miniscule amount of Coke. He was in a home, in a warm bed, with soft blankets and someone that was here trying to show him he was safe and not being hurt. He met the dark eyes only briefly, but gratefully, before he was in breathless coughing fits again that were igniting a panic inside him. He had felt a lot of pain these past few years, but nothing quite matched the feeling of not being able to breathe. He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy. He was going to be sick again. The contracting sensation in his stomach and diaphragm was being triggered by the coughing, only this time instead of throwing up all over the Irishman's feet again, he found himself with a bucket covered in cartoon characters unceremoniously shoved under his head. He was conscious of the fact his head was being held and then another long-suffering sarcastic comment of, "Aye, ya' lucky I ain't the paranoid type, kid. I'd be pukin' lookin' at me ugly mug too..."
Noah was too distressed to pause and understand what was happening here, but he was grateful for the comfort nonetheless.
Noah Cameron :: Original Character
( super thanks to
lovesguinness for being a great sparring partner and letting me borrow their muse here )
ooc