question everything (( Peterick oneshots ))

bruises and needle scars

I gasp out as I takes the picture. I sucks in my stomach and stretch out my neck. It's easy to see the bruises lining my neck, some taking out bigger areas on my neck.

I position myself so all you can see is my stomach to my neck and a little bit of my chin.

My arm is also in the shot, weakly held up with a cigarette in between the pointer and middle finger.

My pull over skin toned sweater looks tan compared to my ghostly paleness. The bruises on my neck really do stand out with there purpley black, crimson tones and yellow highlights. My knuckles are also bruised. My rows of cuts on my wrists show clearly, unorganized scratches are scattered along the top of my hands and arms. A bit of needle scars appear in the photo too on my inner elbow.

I take the photo and put it up on my tumblr. Caption "broken."

I'm not lying in anyway.

I'm broken. Heart scattered in piece and thrown around town, mind absent and decency given to Pete.

I wonder when he'll be home.

I glance over at my desk from my bed. It's covered in loose papers, pens and pencils with sharpies scattered near. My lamp seems to never be turned off because he's always at work with ideas for song lyrics or poetry we could put as the bridge of a song, or even just his own pleasure. He shares his personal world with me sometimes.

This is my desk, but Pete practically lives in this room with me. Us two rarely venture out of my room unless it's for grocery shopping, or going into the studio to record demos. We also leave piss and eat, but whatever.

Joe and Andy also live here.

Fitting four 18-22 year old boys in a two bedroom apartment means that we really should have made it so two people spit a room, but it happened in the way that I got a room and Andy got a room. Pete and Joe could just kinda pick where to sleep, couch, in my or Andy's room, those two sometimes pass out drunk of the kitchen floor too.

We really should be living in dorm rooms, actually. But it also just so happens that no of us are attending college.

I hear a faint knock.

"C'm in, Peter." I mutter.

The door opens to reveal a guy with black hair, dark eyes, and a Simpsons backpack.

He scans the room and smirks at me. "I can see your bruises from here."

I hop off the bed and walk over in front of him. He looks at me, eyebrow raised as I pull him into a hug.

"Yea, well, that's what happens when we're broke and heroin addicted." Pete wraps his arms around Patrick's waist.

He trails a hand down his thigh, his boxers hung low. "Jump."

Patrick obeys and jumps up, Pete catching him and immediately shoving his up against a wall.

"But Patrick...you're mine." He bites at the marks on his neck.

Patrick gasps as he feels a tongue gain the sensitive skin. "P-please..."

"I want only my marks on you, you're mine. Mine, mine, my baby boy."

Pete slides his hand down Patrick's stomach.

"Say you're mine." Pete breathes against his neck.

Patrick whines as Pete's hand is pushes down his underwear.

"Y-y-"

"Spit it out, slut."

"Yours."

———

This is dumb and short but I've been watching too many opioid and heroin addict documentaries recently, like one on MTV with Obama and Macklemore. I don't know, man.

I find this off way of living very interesting.