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Jan. 31st, 2012 07:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theproperpoisonCharacters: Andrew Ryan and himself
Prompt: "Andrew Ryan -- Drug use. I think that's pretty self-explanatory. There doesn't have to be any sex... drug use is enough of a kink for me."
Rating: R
Warnings: Drug use.
The drugs felt good, better than anything could. They were mind altering, but beyond that, they were life changing. His entire outlook on life changed every time he had drugs in his system. Everything was right. Everything was in the perfect order. Nothing hurt.
He wore a suit jacket every day, not because he thought it looked good, although it did, but because he wanted the option to use the drugs intravenously if he chose. Sometimes it just worked better, felt better, affected him faster. His veins weren't ruined, far from it, but he wore the long sleeves anyway, aware that any notice of bruises on his arms would raise questions.
Mostly he snorted it. It wasn't as fast, but once it hit him, it lasted longer. When he was high on cocaine--and if he was honest with himself, that was most of the time--he felt like the king of the world. No gods or kings? Maybe not, but he was the god of his own life.
Then there was the ritual, the precision of cutting up each line with a razor or a a credit card, rolling up the paper or the money or just putting it on the side of his hand, the pause between inhaling it and the kick when it hit his system.
It was like good sex, without the uncomfortableness of having to cuddle afterwards. It was like a good meal, but he never ever felt full. Drinking didn't match the feeling, not even close, also he'd overdo it, hoping for the drunkenness to match the feeling. He smoked cigarettes all the time anyway, but you couldn't come close to equating that to coke, not really.
It had been a long day. He opened his desk drawer and pulled the little bag out. He'd snorted heroin for a year, he'd tried speed for a couple months, and for awhile he'd even taken tranqs, until he realized that he didn't want to be tranquil, not really. It was a waste--he wanted to feel alive, to feel like nothing in the world could bring him down, even if that feeling only lasted for a half an hour. He didn't like how out of it heroin made, making him doze in and out of consciousness, and speed made him paranoid. More paranoid than he already was, which he couldn't take. But coke... that was just right.
He didn't share. It wasn't a social drug. Maybe for some people it was, but when he indulged himself, he wanted to be alone and out of the way. That's why he was sitting there at midnight in his office, bag of cocaine in his hand, nearly shaking from the want of it, from the desire to get it into his bloodstream as quickly as possible.
Fumbling with the bag, he managed to get it open and spilled it out onto the desk. Out came his wallet, which he dropped on the desk too. Opening it, he pulled out the credit card whose only purpose was for making perfectly straight lines on the table, or the floor, or wherever he was when he found that he needed it.
He began to make precise lines of cocaine, hands already beginning to shake because he knew he was close to the best feeling in the world, because he knew that in just a few seconds he wouldn't care about anything, nothing except the feeling of shutting his eyes and letting everything else just go away.
Today he was going to roll a one hundred dollar bill to snort it with. It was an indulgence, something he knew was a cliche, but he got a smile on his face whenever he thought about it. Sometimes it felt like such a blatant display of financial success, making lines with a credit card and snorting an expensive drug through a one hundred dollar bill. He liked that. It was money he'd made through his own perseverance, and using it to have fun just made it more delicious.
The lines were done. He got quality stuff, and back when he'd started, he'd been able to get ten or more lines out of a gram. Nowadays he was lucky if he got four, and sometimes he could only get to making two perfect lines of coke before he lost concentration and snorted it all up as fast as he could. Today, he'd managed three. Three was good. It was enough that he could do two, take a break, and come back for the third. He stared reverently at the lines for a moment, then attacked it almost viciously.
He sat back. There was a moment, a moment that felt far too long, that stretched out almost indefinitely, even though he knew it was only a few seconds. And then. Then the feeling of a rush of calm, of warmth, followed almost immediately by a surge of energy, excitement jolting through his body. His hands shook harder. A smile started to play at the corners of his lips. This was it. This was what he waited all day for.
It was good, so good. How could he forget this feeling until he got high again? How could he even begin to explain what it felt like? He certainly couldn't explain it when he was sober, and now that he was high he didn't want to bother trying to explain, because all he wanted was more. More. He still had more, and he could have it whenever he wanted. That was power.
He did the second line more sloppily, missing some. Some of it got on his upper lip, and he licked it off, relishing the burning sensation that was immediately erased by a slight numbness. He didn't mind the bitterness, not really. It was all part of the experience, part of the whole package he couldn't get enough of.
The third line could wait. The euphoria had hit him, and he had to really enjoy every moment of it, because he knew the crash would come within a half an hour, maybe even shorter. The tolerance he'd built up meant that it didn't last nearly long enough. But he wouldn't do the third line now, he'd ride out that wave of bliss, eyes shut, leaned back, body still in constant movement because the energy was still coursing through him.
He couldn't sit there for long. He stood up, pacing the room, finding enjoyment in even the banal every day movements. That was what this did. It made everything better. How could he ever stop?
He must have paced for nearly forty five minutes, the pacing getting quicker and quicker as he tried to prolong the high, but there was nothing he could do about it, it was working its way out of his system and he didn't want to start feeling the nausea and sickness again that he knew was coming. The drugs on the desk called to him.
Sitting down, he took a deep breath, smiled, and started the process all over again. Soon, everything would go away again.
Prompt: "Andrew Ryan -- Drug use. I think that's pretty self-explanatory. There doesn't have to be any sex... drug use is enough of a kink for me."
Rating: R
Warnings: Drug use.
The drugs felt good, better than anything could. They were mind altering, but beyond that, they were life changing. His entire outlook on life changed every time he had drugs in his system. Everything was right. Everything was in the perfect order. Nothing hurt.
He wore a suit jacket every day, not because he thought it looked good, although it did, but because he wanted the option to use the drugs intravenously if he chose. Sometimes it just worked better, felt better, affected him faster. His veins weren't ruined, far from it, but he wore the long sleeves anyway, aware that any notice of bruises on his arms would raise questions.
Mostly he snorted it. It wasn't as fast, but once it hit him, it lasted longer. When he was high on cocaine--and if he was honest with himself, that was most of the time--he felt like the king of the world. No gods or kings? Maybe not, but he was the god of his own life.
Then there was the ritual, the precision of cutting up each line with a razor or a a credit card, rolling up the paper or the money or just putting it on the side of his hand, the pause between inhaling it and the kick when it hit his system.
It was like good sex, without the uncomfortableness of having to cuddle afterwards. It was like a good meal, but he never ever felt full. Drinking didn't match the feeling, not even close, also he'd overdo it, hoping for the drunkenness to match the feeling. He smoked cigarettes all the time anyway, but you couldn't come close to equating that to coke, not really.
It had been a long day. He opened his desk drawer and pulled the little bag out. He'd snorted heroin for a year, he'd tried speed for a couple months, and for awhile he'd even taken tranqs, until he realized that he didn't want to be tranquil, not really. It was a waste--he wanted to feel alive, to feel like nothing in the world could bring him down, even if that feeling only lasted for a half an hour. He didn't like how out of it heroin made, making him doze in and out of consciousness, and speed made him paranoid. More paranoid than he already was, which he couldn't take. But coke... that was just right.
He didn't share. It wasn't a social drug. Maybe for some people it was, but when he indulged himself, he wanted to be alone and out of the way. That's why he was sitting there at midnight in his office, bag of cocaine in his hand, nearly shaking from the want of it, from the desire to get it into his bloodstream as quickly as possible.
Fumbling with the bag, he managed to get it open and spilled it out onto the desk. Out came his wallet, which he dropped on the desk too. Opening it, he pulled out the credit card whose only purpose was for making perfectly straight lines on the table, or the floor, or wherever he was when he found that he needed it.
He began to make precise lines of cocaine, hands already beginning to shake because he knew he was close to the best feeling in the world, because he knew that in just a few seconds he wouldn't care about anything, nothing except the feeling of shutting his eyes and letting everything else just go away.
Today he was going to roll a one hundred dollar bill to snort it with. It was an indulgence, something he knew was a cliche, but he got a smile on his face whenever he thought about it. Sometimes it felt like such a blatant display of financial success, making lines with a credit card and snorting an expensive drug through a one hundred dollar bill. He liked that. It was money he'd made through his own perseverance, and using it to have fun just made it more delicious.
The lines were done. He got quality stuff, and back when he'd started, he'd been able to get ten or more lines out of a gram. Nowadays he was lucky if he got four, and sometimes he could only get to making two perfect lines of coke before he lost concentration and snorted it all up as fast as he could. Today, he'd managed three. Three was good. It was enough that he could do two, take a break, and come back for the third. He stared reverently at the lines for a moment, then attacked it almost viciously.
He sat back. There was a moment, a moment that felt far too long, that stretched out almost indefinitely, even though he knew it was only a few seconds. And then. Then the feeling of a rush of calm, of warmth, followed almost immediately by a surge of energy, excitement jolting through his body. His hands shook harder. A smile started to play at the corners of his lips. This was it. This was what he waited all day for.
It was good, so good. How could he forget this feeling until he got high again? How could he even begin to explain what it felt like? He certainly couldn't explain it when he was sober, and now that he was high he didn't want to bother trying to explain, because all he wanted was more. More. He still had more, and he could have it whenever he wanted. That was power.
He did the second line more sloppily, missing some. Some of it got on his upper lip, and he licked it off, relishing the burning sensation that was immediately erased by a slight numbness. He didn't mind the bitterness, not really. It was all part of the experience, part of the whole package he couldn't get enough of.
The third line could wait. The euphoria had hit him, and he had to really enjoy every moment of it, because he knew the crash would come within a half an hour, maybe even shorter. The tolerance he'd built up meant that it didn't last nearly long enough. But he wouldn't do the third line now, he'd ride out that wave of bliss, eyes shut, leaned back, body still in constant movement because the energy was still coursing through him.
He couldn't sit there for long. He stood up, pacing the room, finding enjoyment in even the banal every day movements. That was what this did. It made everything better. How could he ever stop?
He must have paced for nearly forty five minutes, the pacing getting quicker and quicker as he tried to prolong the high, but there was nothing he could do about it, it was working its way out of his system and he didn't want to start feeling the nausea and sickness again that he knew was coming. The drugs on the desk called to him.
Sitting down, he took a deep breath, smiled, and started the process all over again. Soon, everything would go away again.
