Author’s Note: I think that Seether should be the official band of The Pretender. Yet another story inspired by one of their songs. Oh, and again, twincest. I’m not sure about the rating of this. It might deserve an R, but whatever.
Summary: Lyle reflects while staring into inevitability.
p g – 1 3
Then she told me she had a gun;
She says she wants to use it on me now.
-Driven Under by Seether
You pull your gun, the sleek jacket that you’re wearing that suits your figure so well billows gently with the movement. Somehow, it reminds me of the last time we were in this position. Your hair had been gently flowing with the wind, glistening in the lamplight. And then you shot me.
We haven’t gotten to that point yet.
Backtrack ten minutes.
You were on top of me, violently crushing your hips against mine. You always loved being in control, and I loved surrendering to you.
I loved everything about you, except one thing: I hated that you loved everything about him. You hated everything about me, except one thing: you loved that I loved everything about her.
You were on top of me, moaning; I was beneath you, moaning. You moaned my name, the word dancing off of your lips and surrounding us like a fog. I moaned her name, the word choking us like thick smoke.
You rolled off of me, throwing on your clothes.
Backtrack six hours.
We missed him again, but just barely. He left us another taunting message, but he wasn’t quite quick enough. He escaped only because I was there. He escaped because we were there together, and that is enough incentive for him. He cannot face us together, not with the knowledge he bears.
You knew this. You hated me for it. You loved him more for it.
I was indifferent to it.
Backtrack six weeks.
You were on top of me once again. Always on top. I like it, you liked it, it’s something we agree on.
We agree on nothing.
You practically screamed, your muscles tightening around me. I was righthere, but then you said it, and, I heard it. His name, whispered like a prayer, dancing off of your lips and the moment of climax.
I shoved you off and threw my clothes on.
Fast-forward one week.
You are going mad, you told me. I rolled my eyes and ignored you.
You need me, you told me. I listened.
You made it up to me. You hated that you needed me. I loved that you needed me. You made it up to me six ways.
Six ways and all was forgiven.
Fast-forward to the inevitable.
You are holding a gun on me. It was inevitable. You slipped, then I slipped. Now we’re both on our asses on the floor.
You tell me you wouldn’t shoot me, though you know you should. I agree, knowing agreeing is the best way to save my hide. Secretly, I don’t agree. I never held a gun to you over this.
Secretly, we agree on nothing.
You tell me I have six chances to make it right. You tell me you had a gun, and if I fail, you will use it on me again. Six chances, and all will be forgiven.
You walk out my door.
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