So, I suck, 'cause I don't have the energy to write porn and keep falling asleep halfway through words :( Death. But 2 other things instead! (over a few comments, too long) Though sadly lacking real porn. Random captured!Bden paragraph I forgot I wrote a few days back, and the first, porn-lacking half of the bj scene, which I seriously will finish, lmao. I am useless XD Sorry! I'll get there eventually :S Here, anyhow, in the meantime :) This stuff is fun too :) (well, okay, more angsty than fun :P But this fic, lol...)
K, captured!Brendon XD *cuddles poor hurt Bden*
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When Brendon looks back on his twenty-two years of life, it falls quite easily into bars of time, thematic eras of where he’s been and gone. And despite all that’s happened since, the first period, the era of innocence is somehow, still, so much clearer than all the rest. When Brendon looks back on childhood, tries to imagine days of smaller, softer hands and rounder faces, childhood is not fourteen years of tiny steps, not family and home, teachers or friends or playing on the streets. For Brendon, childhood is one outstanding week like blue flame in his memory, and one shining, overwhelming night when they were fourteen and fifteen, one brilliant night like white hot iron, like the moon over water, like stars shattered high in the mountains where no streetlight dims the viewer’s sight. Brendon holds his one night close to his chest, and when it burns he holds it closer, brands it on his skin. When all help is gone and all hope is dead, Brendon holds close to that one memory, and lets it glow out eight years of refusing to forget. It’s carried him this far—it’s carried them both this far—and Brendon swears, to silent walls and echoing music from the floors above, that it will carry them both back home.
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Annnnnd...second much longer piece next comment :D
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K, captured!Brendon XD *cuddles poor hurt Bden*
***
When Brendon looks back on his twenty-two years of life, it falls quite easily into bars of time, thematic eras of where he’s been and gone. And despite all that’s happened since, the first period, the era of innocence is somehow, still, so much clearer than all the rest. When Brendon looks back on childhood, tries to imagine days of smaller, softer hands and rounder faces, childhood is not fourteen years of tiny steps, not family and home, teachers or friends or playing on the streets. For Brendon, childhood is one outstanding week like blue flame in his memory, and one shining, overwhelming night when they were fourteen and fifteen, one brilliant night like white hot iron, like the moon over water, like stars shattered high in the mountains where no streetlight dims the viewer’s sight. Brendon holds his one night close to his chest, and when it burns he holds it closer, brands it on his skin. When all help is gone and all hope is dead, Brendon holds close to that one memory, and lets it glow out eight years of refusing to forget. It’s carried him this far—it’s carried them both this far—and Brendon swears, to silent walls and echoing music from the floors above, that it will carry them both back home.
***
Annnnnd...second much longer piece next comment :D