fenetiacatton - Tumblr blog

fenetiacatton · 4 months

Note

for all the fluids in saltburn there are NO PISS FICS!!! WTF!!! i just know oliver has a piss kink i know it

Gonna talk about some saltboys and PISS under this cut.

I think piss gets a lot of Nopes because it’s a toileting activity / excretory.

But like — there are fewer bacteria in your piss than in your spit. It is sterile! Less grody than someone’s bath water.

If the piss isn’t happening anywhere near the toilet, it’s a pretty damn clean bodily function, all things considered.

Aside from that, there’s the sensory issues — smell & taste, mainly. It is absolutely not something most people consider pleasing for either of those senses.

Okay — BUT

Oliver is not most people. Oliver did fucking slurp that bath water. And why?? Because it was steeped in the essence of Felix. It had his sweat, his cum, his skin cells in it. To Oliver, that made it ambrosia.

Of fucking course he’d be down to drink Felix’s piss. It wouldn’t even need to be coming straight from the source. He’d drink it from a cup. He’d fucking do shots of it.

But if it was coming directly out of Felix? If Felix’s dick was right there, even just a peek of it through open jeans and an unbearably large hand, Oliver would be more than down.

And if the smell and the taste were terrible and made him feel sick, it wouldn’t even matter. Something disgusting becomes something devotional when done on one’s knees, he’d think. If he had to struggle to swallow, if he had to choke it down, he’d consider it even more of a victory when he did it. Mastering his own body like that so he could take Felix inside him in a way he’s sure no one else ever has — yeah. He’d be fucking crowing about it, to himself at least.

There’s everyone else, and they all love Felix. And then there’s Oliver, the one who loves Felix more than them.

So that’s all pretty focused on just ONE way to approach piss kink in this ship. We ain’t even started in on how it could play into degradation kink (Felix’s 😊) or D/s and denial.

Felix loves to feel like Oliver is all his. That’s obvious. And every so often, he needs Oliver to prove it. (Looking at you, Tennis Court Champagne.)

Imagine, if you will, the whole crew out at the pub the night after exams. They’re all still wearing their silly hats and boas and giant sunglasses etc. And they’re all getting just indescribably hammered.

And Oliver, squished into the booth, wall on one side and Felix on the other, elbows him a bit. Leans up to whisper shout in his ear that he’s gotta run to the loos. Of course he does! He’s had how many pints and liquor besides?

And Felix meets his eyes for just a moment, then gives the tiniest shrug — not my problem — before going back to his conversation like Oliver hadn’t said anything at all.

So Oliver tries again. But Felix won’t even acknowledge it.

And on and on, until finally, when the person sitting on Felix’s other side has just gotten up to go buy the next round, Felix looks at him.

And he says, “how about you just hold it, mate? last call’s in less than an hour. if you hold it, you can use the toilet in my room after.” (Of course he’s one of the privileged few with an en suite for his room.)

Oliver would be so unsure if he’d heard that right or not. What was Felix getting at, anyway? Why would he care if Oliver held it? Why would he think Oliver wanted to use *his* toilet?

So don’t you think he’d ask “but why not just let me up out the booth so I can go now?”

And don’t you think his eyes would be so, so wide, and go so, so dark, if Felix replied, “well, I’m not going to hold your dick for you in the pub toilets where just anyone could walk in, am I, Ollie?”

Yeah. I think that’s how it’d go. And I think Oliver would be white-knuckling the edge of that table in the pub, and crossing his big toes over the others inside his socks, and bouncing his knee, and dropping his head against that wall, suffering every second of the rest of that hour. And Felix, able to see all of it, would be fucking glowing.

Because Oliver is doing what Felix told him to do. And why would he do that? Because he is wholly Felix’s creature. No one else’s. No one else has that sort of hold on Oliver. No one else even knows just what Oliver is willing to do for him. How fucking devoted he is to Felix. It’s not the sort of shallow lip service Felix gets from most people. It’s something stranger, but realer.

And no. No, I don’t think Oliver manages to hold it all the way until they get to Felix’s room. I think, more likely, he grabs Felix’s arm when they’re nearly there, in a narrow walkway between buildings, and squeezes so hard Felix thinks it really truly may bruise.

And so Felix, already having been reassured of what he needed to know, says “take your cock out, Ollie,” (and damn, tequila makes for loose tongues, doesn’t it?), then spins him by the shoulder to face stone. He curls over Oliver’s shoulder so he can see what he’s doing, which is reaching around his hips to scoop Oliver’s soft dick up in his hand and give the head just the softest little squeeze with his thumb and forefinger.

Amazingly, despite how big his hand is, Oliver fills it much better than Felix expected. But Oliver’s just standing there, trembling. Missing the point, as usual.

So Felix has to remind him, “Isn’t there something you’ve been wanting?”

And Oliver, well. That’s a loaded fucking question, in his mind. But he grabs Felix’s forearm with both of his hands. He leans back into Felix’s chest. And enveloped there in a tiny world that’s fully defined by the shape of Felix, Oliver can let go. Can surrender to the neediest, messiest side of himself.

It would definitely be loud as fuck when Oliver’s piss hits the wall. And once he starts, he’d be so relieved, he’d have to moan.

Don’t you think so? Don’t you think that as Oliver’s inhaling the scent of cigarettes and cologne and tequila breath and his own concentrated piss, and above all the scent of Felix, he’s moaning like a highly paid whore? He’s pulling a stupid fucking face, and he hears Felix chuckle, but it just feels so, so, so good to let go.

Yeah. “Yeah, bet that feels so good, doesn’t it, mate?”

A little sob of agreement.

“And aren’t you terribly glad I didn’t let you out of that booth? It wouldn’t have felt nearly this nice, obviously.”

No response aside from a shudder and the sound of the stream slowing to a drip.

And since Felix is SUCH a good friend, he’s definitely going to give Oliver’s dick a shake or three (or six) before stuffing it back into Oliver’s boxers for him.

See???

There’s so, sooooo many opportunities for cattonquick & piss to work.

Anon — If you think this post might convince others to see the light, feel free to share it. 😇

26 notes · View notes

fenetiacatton · 5 months

Text

a different kind of hang-up

Randy's mom calls while they're in the middle of something, again. Benson tries his best to get Randy off the phone.

2.6k words. canon divergence, boys on the run. established relationship. blowjobs. smoking. Benson being a menace lol he can't handle not being the center of Randy's attention. read on ao3 here if that's more your speed.

Benson just can't keep his hands off him, even when his mom calls.

The phone rings for so long, so long, before Randy can get to it. The second it starts up Benson recognizes the ringtone and tightens his grip on Randy's hips, sags on top of him with his full weight. He pushes his tongue into his mouth with intentional fervor because he likes fucking around with fire and Mrs. Bradley is a five-alarm inferno.

Randy makes a panicked sound and tries to wriggle free to no avail. He taps Benson's chest, but Benson takes the hint and throws it away unopened, snags Randy’s wrist and pins it to the bed.

Randy twists his arm out of his grip and gives him a shove, leans his head away. "Benson–please–I gotta get this." He makes a grab for the phone on the nightstand.

"You really don't," Benson murmurs, taking hold of his jaw with one big hand and pulling his lips back into range.

Randy lets out a frustrated grunt that gets lost in Benson's mouth and shoves him again, harder, with both hands and a knee for good measure. Benson relents, topples lazily to the side and gives him this goofy, satisfied smirk that makes Randy’s stomach do a flip and he just can't deal with that right now.

"You're gonna get me in trouble," he complains as he sits up and snatches the phone.

"Aw." Benson stretches like a cat, folds his arms behind his head, all ribs and armpit hair and lean lines of muscle. "Now wouldn't that be a shame."

"Hi Mom," Randy says, hoping he sounds perfectly even-keeled and normal and not like he's been rolling around with another man in a motel bed. He remembers his erection at that moment, the worst possible moment, and blushes so hard he can feel the blood trading places. He grabs a pillow and shoves it over his lap like she can see through the phone.

"Randy, I don't like this." His mom starts every conversation like this these days.

Randy bites back a sigh. "I know, Mom."

"This isn't a normal thing. Friends don't ask friends to help them move across the country last-minute without a plan."

They've been through this so many times he's lost count. At least his story gets more solid every time he repeats it. "I told you, Brian doesn't have a support system. I'm just trying to do a good deed." Brian is Benson, because Benson can't be Benson, because Benson is wanted for murder.

Randy feels the mattress shift behind him and stiffens when calloused fingers brush against his skin. His mother's list of grievances fades in his ears as Benson worries at the waistband of his jeans.

"Randy," Benson sing-songs softly at his hip. "Tell her you're in the middle of something."

Randy waves him away, tries to ignore the scratch of his beard and his lips on his skin and tune back into the conversation at hand. "You’re a kind and responsible boy, honey, people will take advantage of that."

"I understand, Mom, but I'm–"

He feels the pinch of teeth on his waist, jerks and bites back a yelp.

His mother is alarmed. "Randy? Are you okay? What happened?"

Randy scoots down the bed away from Benson, shoots him a dirty look. Benson rolls onto his back, runs a hand through his hair and flashes Randy an upside-down grin.

"I'm fine, Mom. Stubbed my toe."

"Sorry," Benson says innocently. "You look fucking delicious, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Are you walking around barefoot? I raised you better than that, Randy. Where are you even walking, aren't you still driving?"

"Yeah, we just–we stopped to grab some food and…stretch our legs a little bit."

Benson sits up suddenly and Randy flinches in anticipatory distress before he even speaks. "We can stretch something else if you want," Benson offers with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Randy grits his teeth and ignores him, picks frantically at the seam of the pillow in his lap.

"I bet you're eating like absolute garbage. All that fast food isn't good for your long-term health, you know. God knows you had plenty of that at–well. God knows you've had plenty of that."

She clears her throat, recovers from the near-miss of mentioning the incident. The new incident. She’s had years of practice at sidestepping the elephant in the room, but nobody’s perfect, and this is a much bigger elephant. Randy has to admit that it's convenient, not having to dodge questions because they aren't being asked.

"Where are you now?" she says by way of a subject change.

Benson crawls across the mattress on his knees and winds his arms around Randy’s waist, leans heavy against his back and sets his chin on his shoulder. He smells like sweat and nicotine. Randy grips the pillow like a lifeline.

"We're, um…well, I think we're–"

He knows where they are. He knows exactly where they are. Eighteen miles outside of Glasgow, Kentucky. He knows where they're supposed to be, too, according to the fake route he mapped to sate his mother's anxious curiosity. He just can't quite remember what he told her last time, because his brain's still sloshing around in oxytocin and Benson’s kissing his neck, rubbing his chest, thumb catching on his nipple again and again.

"I-I think we're about 40 miles from Benson," he says loudly, as though the volume adds certainty.

"Benson?" his mom repeats, sounding alarmed, and Benson chuckles in his ear.

"Careful," he mutters.

"Branson!" Randy elbows Benson off of him and stands up, stumbles away from the bed. "I meant Branson. Sorry, I fuc–I messed up." He cringes.

Benson laughs, delighted. "Randy Bradley," he says in a mockery of Mrs. Bradley’s disapproving tone.

"Randy Bradley," his mom says like an echo. "Watch your language."

"Sorry. I’m sorry." Randy stalks away, pacing the length of the tiny room, shooting Benson a look of combined irritation and desperation that ultimately reads as pain. "It’s been–I didn’t sleep well last night."

"You gonna tell her why?" Benson asks slyly.

Randy flushes red hot, throws the pillow in his direction and misses by a mile.

Benson winces. "Yikes, babe."

He flops on his stomach and reaches for the cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand. His back is crosshatched with pink scratches, a familiar set of eight nail marks etched into his love handles. Randy feels a detached sense of something like pride in spite of himself.

"We gotta work on your aim. Tone up those arms." Benson makes a jerk-off motion to help paint the picture.

Randy drags a hand across his face. His brain is fraying at the seams. "You can’t smoke in here," he mouths at Benson, who looks him dead in the eye as he lights up and smiles around the cigarette.

His mother is waxing vitriolic about the dangers of sleep aids. Randy heaves a harried sigh. "No, Mom, that’s–I don’t even know where to get benzos."

"I do," Benson says helpfully. Randy shakes his head. Benson apparently takes this as an expression of doubt rather than exasperation. "I do," he insists.

"So how many more days until you get to San Diego, hmm?" his mom says. "You’re not making very good time, honey. Just because you don’t have a job to come back to doesn’t mean you can just roam the countryside like some deadbeat hippie."

"I know, Mom. It–it’s about the journey."

"Fuck yeah it is," Benson agrees.

"Brian’s never been out of Louisiana and neither have I, so we’re…we’re just seeing the sights together."

"And how long will you be seeing the sights?"

Randy leans against the wall, knocks his head back against the plaster. "I guess…I don't know. I’ll keep you posted, but…we’re not really on a schedule."

Benson gets up from the bed and pads over. He invites himself into Randy’s space, boxes him in against the wall, touches his face, touches his ribs. He blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth as he looks him up and down.

Randy can feel his own heart thudding in his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of his body and its proximity to Benson’s. It’s Pavlovian, almost, the way he draws him in like that. Derails his thought process like a punch to the gut.

"So what, this road trip just goes on forever?"

"No, Mom." Benson hooks his fingers into Randy’s waistband. Randy meets his gaze, kind of forgets what he was saying. "Just, uh…just until we get to California, and then…and then back again."

Benson takes another drag and exhales slow, opens his mouth and lets the smoke curl up and out. Randy breathes it in on reflex. His mouth waters.

"Hang up the phone," Benson murmurs. His dark eyes are on fire.

"It–I–I’ll be home before you know it," Randy says.

Benson leans in and sideswipes Randy’s jaw with his chin, worries at his earlobe with teeth and tongue. "Randy." His voice is gravel and satin. The cigarette glows between his fingers in Randy’s periphery. He reaches further into his pants. "Hang up the phone," he whispers.

"I hate to say it, but I just don’t believe you, Randy," his mom says. Her voice drips with disapproval, cold around a core of genuine concern. He knows she’s biting back so much more that she’d like to say, and he loves her for that. For trying to give him an inch even though he’s taking miles and miles.

"I promise I’m okay, Mom," he says, tilting his hips towards Benson, who puts the cigarette between his lips and starts unbuttoning Randy’s jeans. "I would tell you if I wasn’t. I just…this is just something I need to do. Something I–I want to do."

Benson catches his eye, winks at him. "Hang up," he mouths as he sinks to his knees.

"Randy," his mom sighs. He closes his eyes and can picture her shaking her head. "I just worry about you, sweetheart."

Benson’s pushing his shirt up and tugging his pants down and dragging his tongue up the ridge of his hip. Randy can feel the heat on his waist from the cherry between his fingers. In another life, that would scare him so bad it'd make him sick, the chance of getting burned. He feels differently about it now. Knows Benson won't hurt him, not without cause. Knows he could take it if he did. There’s something seductive about that, the power of that. The trust.

Of course, Benson’s hand on his ass and spit on his skin count for something too.

"Randy? Are you there?"

"Yeah…yeah. Sorry. I know that, Mom, I know you worry," he says. "And I’m sorry about that."

It sounds hollow, even to himself, but he means it. He wishes it was different. That he didn’t have to lie. But that’s not an option, not for Benson, and he can’t be without him. They’re a package deal now and he likes it that way. Wants it that way. Wants him.

"Please, baby," Benson mumbles against Randy’s stomach. He sounds as desperate as Randy feels.

He bites his lip, combs his fingers through Benson’s greasy hair. "I gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you at the next stop."

"Promise me."

Benson takes one last drag on his cigarette before he holds it up for Randy to take. He blows soft and slow along the length of Randy’s dick, runs his hand down the back of his leg.

The smoke wafts up to his nose and Randy white-knuckles the phone. He’s so hard he can’t think, can’t possibly wring one more coherent sentence out of his lust-addled brain. "Yeah, I–I promise, Mom. I love you."

"I love you, honey."

Randy ends the call and throws the phone in the direction of the bed. He misses again, dimly registers the thunk as it hits the wall.

"Fuck, Benson," he breathes at the same time Benson says, "Fucking finally," and wraps his mouth around him. Randy groans and slumps against the wall, lets Benson pull his hips closer. He likes being put where he wants him.

"You're gonna get me in trouble," he says again, bringing the cigarette to his lips. He needs it bad after all that. He thinks he can taste Benson’s spit in the filter and he closes his eyes, lets his brain go blank.

Benson comes off his cock with a pop and looks up at him. "But I always get you back out, right?" His tongue slides in circles.

It's miraculous every time he does this, puts his mouth on him like this. Randy's wished for a miracle for a long time. This wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but who is he to turn it down, with its long lashes and bad language and hands all over him all the time?

"S-so far so good."

Randy takes another drag, feels the high sweep up and over him. It makes him dizzy, makes him giddy. Erases any guilt about lying to his mother and makes him feel good, better than ever, or maybe that’s the man on his knees in front of him.

Benson tilts his head, takes him in. "You’re hot when you smoke, by the way."

Randy chuckles weakly. "Yeah?" He doesn’t do it, not often, usually can’t let go of the voice in his head screaming cancer. But Benson showed him how and he doesn’t cough anymore and in fact, he likes it more every time he tries it. "My mom would lose her mind."

Benson pulls a wry face. "About the smoking, huh? Just the smoking?"

Randy smiles shyly. "Maybe some other stuff too."

"What can she say, she raised a fucking degenerate. And I, for one, am glad she did."

With that, Benson decides the conversation is over and puts his mouth to better use. Randy gasps and moans as he takes him slow, inch by inch, hot and wet and relentless.

He braces himself against the wall. He can barely stand, legs already shaking. Benson’s always telling him he’s easy, and he can’t tell if that’s supposed to be good or bad, but either way, he likes being the way he is. Benson’s fingers dig into the meat of his ass and hit a bruise, sending a sharp thrum of that off-key pleasure straight to his dick. Benson might be right. He might be a degenerate.

He flicks the cigarette butt into the nearby sink and makes it, which is lucky. Maybe his aim isn't that bad after all. Benson has him down his throat to the hilt, which is also lucky. He knows that someday their luck might run out, like gas, like cigarettes, like his mother’s patience, but it sure doesn’t feel like it, not now.

Randy puts his hands on him carefully, the way he showed him, cups his skull and scrunches his hair gently like he's precious, because he is. Benson makes a sound that strikes at his core and he almost loses it right then, but he doesn’t. Not yet. For a second he thinks about miracles, and then he can’t think about much of anything anymore.

The list of things he can't mention when his mother calls gets a little bit longer.

134 notes · View notes