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memobread · 1 year

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𝕴'𝖉 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 - 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖔𝖓𝖊 -- (𝕵𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖓 𝕯𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖘 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗)

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Contents: 1994! Jonathan Davis x reader (tag empty asf), HEAVY mentions of s*xual and mental ab*se, smutty smut, friends to lovers, TONS of fluff, angst, insane amounts of GORE, very violent language, violence, drug and alcohol use, etc.

Honorable mention: @jonathandaviskisser

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~~find my nest full of salt…everything's my fault…~~

Kurt Cobain soothed my weary mind as I lugged my last load down interstate 110, trying not to pass out at the steering wheel. I dreamed of starting my two-week winter break with a sweet night at Wes's, an underground bar below a gas station that sold inexpensive but effective products, my favorite kind. I was in desperate need of a cigarette, just like after any long busy day of trucking. Once I got to the designated location, I heaved off the supplies and signed a few papers. Once I got back in my truck, I sighed in relief. I would have the next two weeks off for winter break. All that was left to do was to go to Wes's and drink the night away. Once I arrived at Wes's through a rough, snowy highway, I filled my truck with gas, parked it in a safe spot, and stopped under the store's awning to look at the snowy night sky. It was strangely beautiful to me, even though it was pitch-black under the streetlamps. I suddenly remembered this was the weekly night that hillbilly Joe Singleton and his wife go on a frenzy of religious insanity. I wanted to kill them both, so I avoided them to keep myself from doing so. I quickly ran inside when I heard their radio blasting behind me. I grabbed a Heath bar from the shelf near me and made my way to the register, waving to the cashier, my best friend, Mikey.

"Damn y/n, you runnin' from the devil or sumn'?" Mikey asked, slightly concerned.

"Yeah, man. Joe and Monica came here to unleash hell." I whispered, keeping an eye out for them.

Mikey leaned forward on locked arms.

"Don't worry about it so much, Y/N. They dumber than rats on PCP."

Mikey knew about my anxiety. He never failed to help me calm down with his humor. He's always been my human antidepressant ever since we were teenagers.

"They came in here earlier today bitchin' at me because we sell pot here." Mikey laughed, putting on his red baseball cap.

Mikey did a typical redneck pose and stuck a rolled-up receipt in his mouth,

"And-And they was all like-"

Mikey slammed his fist down onto the table, a mocking look of disgust.

"YOUSE ALL GOIN' STRAIGHT TO HELL WITH YOUR DEVIL HIPPIE SHIT!!! GOD CAINT STAND FOLK LIKE YOU!!!"

I cracked up laughing, my nerves disappearing mostly.

"Man, when will they accept that the Aryan race isn't a thing anymore!" I laughed, leaning forward on the counter.

That's when Mikey burst out into laughter, playfully slapping me.

"Jesus Christ Y/N…" He wheezed, unable to keep a straight face for even a quarter of a second.

While our laughing fit was happening, we didn't notice Joe and his whore wife hearing our conversation. Joe threw a dime at me to get my attention. My smile instantly faded. Mikey cussed under his breath. We both turned to face the two cunts. They looked as aggravating as ever.

"You two won't be sayin' that shit in the lake of fire, imma tell you that!" Joe snapped, stepping towards us.

Mikey looked like he was about to commit mass homicide.

"Great! I'll see you two there, cocksuckers!" Mikey fumed, flipping Joe the bird.

Joe lunged at Mikey, to which I responded by kicking him in the stomach, making him fall to the floor. Mikey jumped over the counter and started beating the living hell out of Joe while the whore made a beeline for me. I tackled her down and repeatedly punched her with all my might, forcing an annoying squeal out of her. It was the best I had felt in a long time since she reminded me of my mother. It was like I was trying to kill my past. Mikey held off Joe while I got up and stomped on the whore's face repeatedly, blood starting to ooze from her annoying nose. I was laughing while the whore screamed in pain, unable to fight me off. I got back onto her and plunged my fingers down her throat, thrusting them in and out at an inhumane pace until she started vomiting on herself. Nearly screaming with maniacal laughter, I took my vomit-ridden fingers and plunged them back into her throat, making her swallow her vomit. My elbow plummeted to her face, her eye exploding into seeping red. All the memories of her groping Mikey, aiding my mom in assaulting me, stealing my cigarettes, and reminding me of my mother fueled my primal rage while I beat her senseless. I felt like I was taking revenge on my mother; a wave of utter bliss and satisfaction washed over me, causing me to burst out in shrieking laughter before plunging my fingers into her eyes. She burst into tears and screaming when I fingered her eye sockets like my mother did when my brother broke her glasses. Blood spurted out of her eyes and onto my cheek, my maniacal shrieks only getting louder.

"YEAH!!! YEAH!!! TAKE THESE FUCKING FINGERS IN YOUR BLOODY HOLES, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT SLUT!!!" I got up and stomped on her bloody, snot-and-vomit-ridden ugly face.

Tears streamed down her bloody face when she wailed;

"No! Please stop it now! I've d…done *cough* nothin-"

Already having enough of Monica's shit, I jumped up and plummeted back down, my elbow making a beeline for her face before it crashed through her thick skull with all my body weight. I swear I nearly peed myself with joy when I heard her skull crack and a pig-like squeal, followed by loud sobbing and thick, metallic blood soaking my sleeve. I dove onto her and slammed my tight, rock-solid fist into her bloody mess of a face multiple times, each punch getting more lethal. When I looked up, not noticing my surroundings, Mikey knocked Joe unconscious with a bottle of Busch and dragged him back to his car.

"Hold her down with me, Mike!"

Mike rushed over to me and the dying bitch on the floor and gleefully held her wrists above her head.

"Yeah, fuck her up!!" Mikey shouted, spitting on her face before getting up and stomping on it.

"P…Please…..Joe….Joe made me do it…."

"Bullshit!"

In a fit of blind rage, I grabbed Mikey's broken bottle and plunged into Monica's face, lacerating the soft, pink tissue under a chalky burlap sack, blood spurting onto my face. I gave the bottle to Mikey with a bloody grin. He snickered and shredded the bottle side to side in the bitch's torn face, a tent growing in his jeans.

"Wait, wait, Y/N, hold her down for a sec." Mikey panted before standing up and unzipping his fly.

Mikey groaned in pleasure and relief when he pulled out his unit and started pissing on Monica. He and I both laughed maniacally at the humiliation.

"Yo Y/N, you think we should string this bitch upside down from the roof and have folks have their way with her for tips?"

Before I could agree, I felt a thick rope fling around my neck from behind; Joe woke up.

"Shit!" Mikey shouted, trying to fight off Joe but getting kicked by him square in the bare nuts.

Mikey howled in pure agony, his gonads obliterated and his eyes watering.

"Nobody fuckin' touches my wife…" Joe snarled, too shellshocked by anger to yell.

I kicked helplessly against my oxygen restraint, trying to pull off the rope while not being able to reach any punching points on Joe. With merely a few factors of dying, I accepted my fate; I had always wanted this, but I didn't want it to be then. I was having too much fun. My vision started to blur, and my head started racing with memories as Mikey's cries became more distant and inaudible. I flailed in Joe's grip and heard him laugh amid my panic.

"This is what you fuckin' get, slut…"

When I felt like I was a few seconds away from dying, I suddenly heard a loud crack, and I felt glass tumbling down my face and into my lap. Joe's grip went limp instantly, and I started coughing.

"Fucking piece of shit…" I heard a familiar voice spit.

I felt Joe getting hauled out under me, and my head hit the floor, awakening me a bit. With my vision blurry, I could only make out a tall blurry figure with long, dark brown hair kneeling over me.

"…c'mon…" The figure murmured, seeing me struggle to clear my vision.

Once my vision started to clear up, the familiar features of the figure became evident. The pretty, deep inky eyes, the heart-wrenching dorky face, the frazzled long hair; it was none other than Jonathan Davis in the flesh. He was the cute boy I worked at the Fritz warehouse with in high school. He was always shy and never talked to anyone except me. The second we met each other, we hit it off instantly like we needed to be best friends. We would laugh together about the shit we saw in magazines or what we wanted to do when we got older. We would play video games together at the local arcade, and Jon would always beat me at Street Fighter, and I'd have to carry him home as a losing punishment. We would even hang out in a nearby alleyway and eat Chinese food while looking at the smoky sky and talking nonsense.

Yeah Y/N, I kinda wanna start a band, but this job doesn't pay shit for equipment…

Eventually, I fell in love with him, MADLY in love with him. I haven't spent a living second without thinking about him since.

He's so fucking cute-

"Hey!"

I snapped out of my dream-like state, bursting into a coughing fit, aiming my spurting blood away from Jon.

"Shit!" I heard Jon's voice again.

I wasn't hallucinating.

"Agh…fuck…" Mikey's voice trailed closer to where Jon and I were.

Mikey ran to Jon and me once he saw me coughing.

"Oh my god, Y/N!"

Hacking out my last bit of blood, I turned to Jon, shit-and-blood-faced, drooling everywhere. Jon couldn't help but laugh a little.

"Is that…y-*cough*you, Jon?"

"Um…yeah… You look kinda familiar…"

Oh god, please don't fuck this up…

I prayed that he recognized me.

"It's Y/N from high school, remember?"

At that moment, Jon analyzed me, processing the two versions of me. When he realized who I was, his face lit up, morphing the prettiest, most heart-wrenching smile known to the universe. I flung my arms around him and buried my face in his shoulder. Just as shocked as I was, he squeezed me back, providing a comfort I had never received from anyone else.

"I missed you so much…" I whispered into his shoulder, rubbing his back.

Burying his face in my hair and running his fingers through it, Jon said,

"I missed you too, Y/N…a lot…"

Jon hugged me tighter, nuzzling into my hair and groping at my back, leaving no space between us. I swear I almost fell asleep in his warm embrace until Mikey said,

"Yo…uh… Jon?"

Jon lifted his head, all flushed and full of serotonin.

"…mm?"

"You uh… you know Joe?"

Jon chuckled and pulled back a little, still keeping his arm slung around my shoulders.

"Oh, that sister-fucking piece of shit? He narced me and a meth dealer and nearly got us thrown in jail. If his wife hadn't fucked up the evidence on accident."

"Jesus, man…"

"Y-Y'know I was trying to quit, I really was, and I did! I fucking-"

I found myself completely zoning out, only listening to Jon's attractive voice, staring at the veins in his hands, his side profile, his dorky smile, his adorable laugh… I wanted him.

I need him so badly. I need him to know about my feelings for him. I need to-

"Y/N!"

I jolted awake, still semi-conscious and dreaming of Jonathan.

"Shit-sorry…" I coughed, my spit slightly red.

"Oh no no no it's fine Y/N, take your time." Jon wiped my teary eyes with his thumbs.

"Nah you're good Y/N, I was jus' gonna ask if you and Jon're ready t' go to Wes's."

"Oh yeah, mmhmm…" I said.

Jon helped me up, keeping a hint of his cute smile.

"So uh… what's your name?" Jon asked Mikey as we walked to the secret entrance to Wes's.

"Oh, I'm Mikey; I'm a friend of Y/N's."

Jon hummed before Mikey led him and me into the storage cabinet behind the front counter. I entered the code into the number pad attached to the trapdoor on the floor; 110192837. I pried the door with the broomstick handle next to me; the only way to open it.

"Damn, guys! This is insane!" Jon exclaimed, impression dusting his pretty face.

"Yeah, the owner designed this; it's pretty fuckin' cool," I said before stepping aside to let Jon and Mikey go in.

The second Jon held my hips to help me down the ladder I nearly had a full-blown panic attack due to how completely and helplessly flustered I was by this man. Even one tiny touch can send me spiraling into insanity. His grip on my hips was so tight, but not to the point where it hurt, but to an extent when I felt protected.

"Oooooh Y/N's blushing!!!" Mikey jeered like a teenage girl.

"Pr-probably because I almost just got murked." I lied, a slight stutter and a hint of nervousness in my voice.

Mikey scoffed and led us down the dim tunnel to the venue. My mind raced, wondering if Jon noticed my mannerism and thought I didn't like him touching me. Once we reached the entrance to the venue Mikey knocked on the door. Jon looked a little distraught. With one overreaching thought came another, then another, and so goddamn forth.

I acted so fucking nervous around him before he left, does he think I hate him, or does he hate me now? Does he even-…No. He was happy to see me, but why is he-

"Hey, Mike, who's this zesty Raggedy Ann lookin-"

"He's a friend of Y/N's, calm the fuck down." Mikey interrupted the bouncer, stepping forward slightly.

The bouncer, Jim, pursed his lips and lowered his eyes to me with dangerous intentions.

"He a friend or what?"

Clearing my throat, I said calmly,

"Yes, he's with us, I promise."

Jim's nostrils flared, and he pursed his lips again.

"Come in."

We hurried inside, avoiding Jim's death glare. The place was just as I remembered; dimly lit, with a touch of gray in everything, a putrid odor of meth and piss in one particular spot, but the rest smelled like sandalwood and cigarettes.

"Wanna go to the bar?" I asked Jon.

Jon obliged, and we slinked to the bar while Mikey trailed off toward a leopard-print-clad chick. We awkwardly sat down, and I waved to the bartender.

"Oh hey, Y/N! Who's this guy?" The bartender, Sid, asked me.

"Oh I'm Jonathan; I'm Y/N's old friend," Jon said.

"Always nice to see newcomers who aren't pieces of shit! Anything you want, Jonny Boy?"

Jon chuckled.

"Just a rum and coke, please."

"Oh, Y/N, you want that too?"

"Oh yeah, thanks, man," I replied awkwardly.

Sid walked off, leaving Jon and me alone. I nervously shifted slightly in my chair before asking,

"So, uh…you're in a band now, huh? That's pretty cool!" I said, screaming at myself not to sound so awkward.

"Oh yeah I started Korn last year after Sexart broke up, and we're doing pretty great!"

"Oh, I saw you guys in concert, all of you are just so talented, I swear to god."

"Wait, what? Why didn't you come to say hi?"

My head hurt with negative anticipation.

"I…I didn't wanna intrude on anything or piss off security…"

Fuck.

I swear I nearly burst into tears when Jon looked slightly hurt. I felt god awful, but my misspeaking was hard to take back.

"I-I mean, I really wanted to, but-"

"Y/N, this whole 'band' thing hasn't made me into some posh asshole! You can come up and say hi to me after shows! There isn't even that much security!"

I froze, trying not to cry as I watched my world crumble around me. I hurt someone I loved more than anything else to ever exist like an incompetent piece of garbage. I couldn't speak, or else I would start crying.

Okay, why is Jon so pissed off and why am I such a FUCKING IDIOT?!

Jon scoffed and turned back away from me, taking his rum and coke from Sid, who slid a second one over to me.

"Whoa, whoa Y/N! Are you alright?" Sid noticed me trying with all my strength to hold back tears.

"I-……I'm okay…" I choked out, my voice cracking.

"No you're not Y/N, what's wrong?"

I needed to lie somehow.

"M…My pet cat needs to get surgery, and I'm just-"

I burst into loud sobs in front of Jon, even though I didn't have a cat. Sid rubbed my back and said,

"Aw, Y/N, the vets here are great, okay? Your cat's gonna be fine, promise."

I looked up at Sid, tears still streaming down my red face.

"Here, Y/N, just drink the worries away, and you and your cat will be alright…"

I nodded, taking a sip of my rum and coke and slipping Sid five dollars.

"Th…Thanks…"

Once Sid left, I turned back to Jonathan, who was rubbing his temples and running his fingers through his dreads.

I hate myself so much…

Jon turned back to me, a troubled look on his face.

"Y/N, please look at me."

Fuck.

Reluctantly, I slowly turned to face him, my face red and wet with tears and snot. Jon knit his brow and lowered his head when he saw what he did.

"I…I'm so sorry, Y/N…I just…This whole 'fame' thing, it just…"

Jon set his hands on my knees.

"*sniff* It's really okay, Jon. You don't need to apologize."

Jon clasped his hands around my face, cupping and caressing it.

"Y/N, look at yourself! Of course I need to apologize! I hurt my best friend!"

"Jon, it's *sniff* okay, I know what fame can do to someone…" I sniffled, wiping my tears.

Jon sighed, taking his hands off my face and sipping his drink.

"Yeah… it's been god-awful, but that doesn't mean I just get to bitch at everyone." Jon said, setting his drink down.

"I know… But I'll let you bitch at me just this once." I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

Jon snickered, turning back to me.

"You should drink that before it gets warm."

I nodded and took a giant sip, feeling the sting of alcohol rush into my sinuses, starting to cleanse them of horrible thoughts. Jon cleared his throat.

"Yeah, I have security on my ass 24/7, I can't fucking go anywhere without being bombarded by fuckin' fans, I got fuckin' bruises from being tossed around during concerts, and I just-…"

Jon trailed off and ran his fingers through his hair, his brow knitting again in frustration.

"I needa stop drinking, but nobody likes me when I'm sober…"

My heart dropped into my shoes.

This can't be happening…He deserves so much better…I need to get him out of this…

I scooched over to Jon and wrapped him in a big bear hug, cradling his head to my breast while he clenched his arms around my waist for dear life. Even though I hated seeing him like this, I loved holding him so much. The side of his face resting against my chest while he held my waist flooded my stomach with butterflies.

His hair, oh my god…

Even though it was in dreadlocks, it was still soft to the touch, and it was so satisfying to scratch at his scalp, making him hum through sobs.

He's so adorable it hurts…

Jon looked up at me with red, glossy eyes.

"Jeez, it's like you never left…"

I smiled and nuzzled his head before taking another sip of my rum and coke. I was starting to loosen up.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't get ahold of you. I tried, I really did…" I whispered into his dreads.

Jon pulled away and held my hands.

"I know, so did I, but this whole fucking-…"

Jon trailed off, realizing he was repeating himself.

"Well, you have me now, and I have you," I said, trying to calm the mood again.

Jon turned back to me.

"I'm so glad I do…"

Over the next few hours, we continued laughing with each other through drinks, catching up and talking about what was happening within the past few years.

"Hehe…Yeah, I remember one time; Head got so fucked up on stage he pulled down his pants and humped his guitar…"

"Whoa, what the hell? Did you guys get banned or something?"

Jon laughed.

"Oh no, no; it was a chill venue…The guys were mad though."

I finished my rum and coke, setting the glass down, my nerves relaxed.

"Y-You guys were so fucking good in concert, like…I was afraid you were having a seizure or something, just turns out you're really fucking talented…"

"Nah, we're alright; we're just really *chuckle*, we're just really fucked up in the head, that's all…" Jon laughed, flashing his pretty smile yet again.

We continued laughing and talking until the dancefloor lit up in the center of the venue. All of a sudden, "Loser" started playing.

"Oh my GOD, I love this song…" I said, turning around to get ready to leave.

"Oh man, me too…You wanna dance?" Jon asked, hopping off the stool and extending his hand for me to take it.

I happily obliged, taking Jon's sweet hand and traveling smoothly with him to the dancefloor. The song started with us swaying next to each other, grooving to the beat, but when the beat dropped, Jon and I threw our heads forward and started headbanging, swaying around like headless chickens. But then again, so was everyone else.

"SOYYYYYYYYYY UN PERDEDORRRRRRRRRRR IM A LOSER BABYYYYYYYY SO WHY DON’T YOU KILL MEEEEE…."

"GET CRAZY WITH THE CHEEZ WHIZZ!!!"

Jon and I nearly screamed the lyrics while getting fucked up on straight dopamine.

It feels so good to have this much fun without getting blackout drunk…"

We danced through "Fucking Hostile," "Pull the Plug," "Enjoy the Silence," and god-knows-what-else, and spun ourselves silly. During "Total Eclipse of the Heart," Jon motioned for me to come into his arms. Of course, I obliged, blushing profusely, and he took me into his arms, swaying me side to side with my arms around his torso and his on my upper back.

He's so pretty up close…

His vantablack eyes twinkled with the dim lights, as did his soft features.

Right here is the most kissable motherfucker alive.

Without thinking, I tightened my arms around Jon and laid my head on his chest. He was taken aback at first when he suddenly loosened his grip but held me tighter as if he was trying to keep me as his. I laid my head on his chest and listened to Jon's heartbeat, which ran faster than Bullet Bill on speedball and steroids.

Am I doing anything wrong, or does he want me too?

Suddenly, I heard a loud crash and glass shatter everywhere.

"Get the fuck out now!"

I swiveled around to see Joe and Monica, both mutilated to unrecognition. Monica had jumped behind the bar counter and knocked over all the alcohol on the shelves, and Joe stood beside her, holding a lighter. Monica saw Jon and I and lunged at us.

"Jesus!"

Monica smacked me down before swinging at me with floppy fists, clocking me square in the nose. Jon tried to help me, but Joe tackled him, socking him in the stomach. I threw Monica off me and tried to kick Joe off of Jon, crying out for backup.

"Hey! Someone help us!"

As soon as those words left my lips, a stampede of beefy men and angry intoxicated girls came to our aid. Joe got knocked down, instantly thrown against the wall and socked in the face hard. I could only watch in awe as Joe, a man I couldn't even look in the eye, was effortlessly shredded to pieces.

"You heretics!"

Those words were Joe's last words before a guy grabbed a spoon and started digging out Joe's eyeballs, turning his swears into breathy screams and sobs. Watching the scene unfold, I prompted myself to grab another old spoon and lunge at Monica, who was sitting on the floor screaming at the men to stop, not doing shit about her dying husband. I tackled her to the floor and took a broken bottle, contorting her squirming body before ripping off her shirt and piercing the flesh of her thin abdomen, a pocket of thick blood bursting from the laceration and making her vocal chords raspy with how much she screamed. A random guy pinning her down with me, I got up, got a running head start, and plummeted onto her face, the heels of my boots bursting her eyeballs and nose with red, slimy fluid.

"Y/N please just stop! This won't bring back the little pussy, Chris, you called a brother!"

She did not…

Monica had the nerve to put the name of my brother she drove to suicide into her mouth. She tormented him relentlessly, telling him nobody loved him, pretending to kill his imaginary friends, and used his autism to make him do whatever she wanted, including sexual favors.

C'mon Christopher, be a man and fuck me! You don't want Whizzy to be sad, do you? He would just LOVE to see your porn star dick before he DIES OF CANCER!! Now come on, you little fa-

The memories flooded back to me of Monica's abuse towards Chris and how I was too young to fight back against her. I didn't understand that he didn't want it.

And now Chris's bones are still hanging in his bedroom…

With tears pricking at my eyes I got up, allowing Monica to hobble to her feet, a smirk teasing at her face.

Now's my chance to show Chris I love him…

Stepping up closer to Monica, my nostrils flared slightly.

"I hate you."

Monica scoffed.

"Oh really? You weren't saying that when I bought you pizza after your brother ate my pussy like he was starving! I just know he liked it when I used a little…FORCE on him, is all!"

"Chris wanted you dead."

Monica cackled, slapping her thigh before getting all up in my face.

"Then why was he so eager to fuck me and give me ALL his money when I was the only one that could save his little imaginary friend? That motherfucker needed me!"

Monica stepped closer to me.

"And all you and Chris could say was 'we love you Monica!'"

At that moment, I lost all means of composure, adrenaline shooting through my veins and my eyes red and wide as saucers. My blood was searing through my skin; it needed to dart my hands at Monica.

She's gonna regret even LOOKING at Chris.

Using one-hundred percent of my strength effortlessly, I seized Monica by the throat and slammed her down WWE-style to the floor. One of the guys pinning her down, I grabbed my spoon.

"No! Please!"

I cackled, followed by a harsh smack to her face.

"You were talking so much shit just a minute ago, and now you're crying like a little FUCKING BITCH for me to stop?"

Monica loved using that line with Chris.

"I'm sorry!" Monica cried, trying to slap my hands away.

I got up and stomped on her throat.

"Bullshit!"

I got back down and positioned my spoon at Monica's left eye.

"Chris would be so fuckin' happy to see this…"

I spread apart Monica's cyan-pigmented eyelids and started wedging the rusty spoon into her cornea, earning another strained scream from her.

"Y-You don't have to do this!" Monica tried pushing me away again.

The guy holding her down landed a violent smack to her face.

"Shut up, bitch."

I shot him a friendly smile through all my anger before slowly digging my spoon into Monica's eye again.

"Hey y'all, come watch this!"

The people who killed came and watched me torture Monica.

"Fuuuck, this is gonna be so good…"

I jabbed my spoon behind her eye, more blood seeping into the well of the spoon. At that point, Monica couldn't even scream anymore; all I heard was the attendees cheering. Deep red hues pricked and teased into the whites of her eyes while I pushed the spoon deeper, her eyeball emerging from her socket and out from under her decorated eyelids. I yanked the spoon, dislodging her eye and earning loud cheers. I stood up on top of Monica's retching body.

"Alright, who wants to keep the eyeball?"

Almost everyone raised their hands excitedly.

"Alright, let's see here…"

I chose a short girl in the back because she and I both liked Cannibal Corpse.

"You, in the Cannibal Corpse shirt! Catch!"

The girl squealed with joy as I ripped the nerve and threw her the bloody eyeball. I dug out the other eye and threw it to a big guy wearing no shirt and covered in tattoos, to which he responded by laughing,

"You crazy as shit!"

He and a group of guys came up to Monica and I.

"May we?"

"Sure!"

I stepped back and watched the scene unfold, my body trembling with sheer dopamine. One guy had picked her up by the wrists with ONE hand and hung her from a ceiling beam like a piñata. I grabbed a half-drank Heineken left on the floor and looked for Jon when the men had their ways with Monica, violating her in every manner, from sexually to emotionally, to straight-up physically.

"Yeah, take this fucking knife in your saggy ass, you brother-fucking cow!"

"Tsk…making my bro fuck your fishy cunt when you can't even suck dick? What a fucking ingrate…"

"I bet you had your first time with your dad, you little pissy shit-whore slut!"

I took another sip of my beer, getting into the closet where the exit was.

I need to find Jon soon…

I was about to leave when I got called back to where the guys and Monica were.

"Yo! You in the closet! Come out here you crazy motherfucker!"

I opened the door to see every attendee, including Sid, forming an aisle leading me to Monica's now naked and mutilated body. She was barely holding onto life.

"Will you do the honors?" One of the men asked, holding out a dull, rusty box cutter.

I happily obliged, approaching Monica while drawing the box cutter.

"Monica…"

All she could do was cough up semen and blood.

"You may think you're hot shit and that all the poor men you manipulated are groveling at your feet…"

I stepped closer.

"But all you are is a fucking disease that they just happened to catch."

I angrily drew the blade to her throat.

"…and I'm the cure."

I jabbed the blade deep into Monica's jugular vein and ripped it through pale flesh all the way to the other side, almost completing a 360. The bar attendees cheered while they watched Monica choke and bleed pathetically down her face. I dropped the boxcutter like a microphone and stood in the crowd to watch Monica die, finishing my beer. I earned pats on the back and cheers of my name.

"Damn bro, you fucked her up!"

"MAD respect, dawg."

Turns out I wasn't the only one Monica messed with.

I want to see Jon.

Nudging my way through the crowd, I exited the bar through the closet. Once I reached the snowy surface, I saw Jon sitting in the alleyway where we used to hang out.

"Jon!"

He turned to me, flashing his pretty smile.

"Hi Y/N!"

I hurried over to him and sat down next to him.

"Why'd you leave?"

Jon sighed, his smile fading slightly.

"It was just…too much."

I immediately went to comfort him. I hated seeing Jon like this.

"Oh no I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry I didn't look for you or fu-"

Jon put a finger to my lips.

"It's okay, Y/N! You need to stop apologizing so damn much…"

Jon chuckled, putting his arm around me. I laid my head against his shoulder and looked up at the snow. It was strangely beautiful to me.

"Besides, it wasn't even your fault! That bitch had it coming." Jon said, snuggling into me a little more.

I chuckled.

"Couldn't've said it better myself…"

I yawned, and without thinking, I wrapped my arms around Jon and buried my face in his neck. He pulled away slightly, taken aback and flushed.

Fuck!

I pulled away as well, scrambling to give Jon space.

"Shit, I'm sorry…"

Jon immediately scrambled back to me.

"Oh no, no, no, no I didn’t-…I mean I-…I liked it!"

My heart jumped out of my throat and into his hands.

"Oh…uh..."

Y/N, you idiot…

Jon broke the awkward silence by asking,

"Y/N, I'm just gonna say this straight up because I need to know; Do you love me?"

I froze, shellshocked by what I heard. Without holding back, I drunkenly blurted,

"Yes, Jonathan! I love you so much. I can't even spend a living minute without thinking about you! You're the only thing giving me hope in life, and I hope I did too with yours. You know why? Because I fucking love you! I would go through a fate worse than hell for you! I would give up everything in my life just to see your…BEAUTIFUL smile! Every night I hug my pillow and pretend it's you, and it's the only way I can sleep! I would do anything for you! I would buy you anything and everything I can't afford! I love you, I love you, I LOVE YOU!"

Jon's face got burnt to a crisp. He never given that kind of dedication from anyone other than his mother.

"Y/N, I…" Jon stuttered, shifting in his place.

I scooched back, my eyes burning with tears.

I just ruined my relationship with him, like I ALWAYS FUCKING DO! I ruin everything!

"I'm really sorry, Jon. I'll leave you alone."

Before I could leave, Jon instantly grabbed me and pulled my face an inch from his, holding it in deep devotion.

"I love you too, Y/N."

He pulled me in and connected his soft lips to mine.

HOLY FUCK, WHAT?

My stomach jumped out of my anus, and my head raced.

Is it getting hot out here, in this snowy weather?

I hugged around his upper back and pulled myself in closer to Jon, deepening the kiss. He hummed, moving one of his hands to the back of my head, taking off my hat before scratching and massaging my scalp.

He's so perfect…

I moved my hand up to his head, letting go of all my nerves completely. I buried my fingers in his dreads and caressed his soft cheek with my thumb. Jon wrapped his legs around me to get closer, more blush spreading across my cheeks. I buried myself into him, wrapping my jacket inside his so there would be no space between us. Jon broke the kiss, still holding me in the cuddly position.

"You're a good kisser, Y/N."

I smiled, nuzzling his cute nose.

"So are you, Jonathan Howsmon Davis."

Jon giggled and pulled me in closer with his legs, shifting me over so my back was against the brick wall.

"I love you so much, Y/N. I always have…"

I pecked his lips.

"I love you more."

Jon kissed me again, this time a little more passionate, turning the kiss into a sweet makeout session.

I feel so safe under him…

Jon pulled away.

"You look so flustered, isn't this what you wanted?"

I stammered,

"Oh no, no, I want this, it's just…"

Jon cocked his head to the side.

"You're so fuckin pretty, it hurts." I finished my sentence, pulling him in for a harder kiss.

Jon kissed me back, grunting as he shifted more onto me, pinning me against the brick wall. He squished my face into his with his hands, starting to eat at my lips a little.

I need him so bad…

I moved my hands to his hair and face when he moved his to the small of my back, enveloping me into him and allowing me to bring him closer. His skin was softer than anything ever felt under my calloused fingertips. His hair was so long and frizzy; I could hold onto it for hours. EVERYTHING about this man was absolutely perfect in every way.

"I've been wanting this for so long…" I breathed in between kisses, lost in his pretty face up close.

Jon smiled again, nuzzling into me and pecking my red cheek.

"Me too."

We continued to lazily make out, snuggled in each other's jackets and making up for all the missed time we could have spent together. I felt like I could disappear into his arms and snuggle him forever. Jon's fuzzy hair surrounded my face while he straddled my lap and held my head sweetly. Our noses and eyelashes fluttered on each other under large snowflakes, more slow songs playing in the background. When we weren't kissing and nuzzling, we just gazed into each other's pretty eyes for a few seconds before kissing again.

He's so soft…

Jon pulled an unopened beer from his jacket pocket and cracked it open against the wall. He took a sip before offering me the bottle, to which I obliged to him feeding me like that. From then on, gentle beer kisses and sweet nothings got shared between us. As we finished the bottle, there was more tipsy shifting and growing lustful tension, both of us wanting more than just cuddles.

"My pretty baby…" Jon murmured before tilting my head backwards and planting sweet, open-mouthed kisses on my neck, making me gasp and bite my lip.

When Jon said those words and kissed my neck, my heart rate went from zero to infinity. Kissing Jon was every nightly desire come true; my fantasies had become realities. I felt my nether regions tingle in my thick, baggy jeans. I ran my fingers up and down his hot body under his jacket, raking my fingernails over his sensitive spots, making him whimper against my neck.

Fuck, his noises are so hot…

I could feel Jon's erection poking at my lower tummy as he started shifting on my lap.

He's so desperate, it's so cute…

Jon pulled away, crashing his lips back into mine while gripping the sides of my face again. My fingers trailed down to his waist, feeling all over his hot back.

"I want you bad, Y/N…" Jon husked between kisses, biting and tugging my bottom lip.

I slid my cold fingers under his shirt, making him yelp.

"I want you more, Jon…"

I latched my mouth onto his neck, feeling up his sides and hairy chest.

Now I'm in charge…

I snaked my hands down to his hips, dangerously close to his crotch.

"Oh fuck, Y/N, please…"

Jon was already at my mercy, begging me to touch him. I continued teasing around his throbbing cock, licking and sucking hickeys all over his neck. He was a moaning mess on my lap, like a little slut in heat. I snickered against his neck.

"You want me to touch you, baby?"

Jon buried his face in the crook of my neck and nodded frantically. I removed my hands from him and whispered in his ear,

"Use your words…"

Jon thrust hard into my hand and begged,

"Please, Y/N…make me cum all over your hand…or mouth…or pussy, I don't fucking care which…"

I got up, helping a whining Jonathan up with me.

"Let's go somewhere a bit more private…"

Jon followed me around the front of the building to my truck. He was practically shaking from my hands, making me shiver with anticipation at how he would take revenge on me later. I opened the back of my truck and turned on my lantern next to an old mattress.

"Shall we?" I asked, hopping inside.

Jon scrambled into the back of my truck, desperate to have my hands on him.

"Fuck yes…"

I stood up and closed the opening.

"Unzip your pants, babe."

Jon unbuckled his belt and pulled down his black khakis just past his ass, his erect cock stretching the fabric of his red boxers. He laid down, ready for me.

"C'mere…"

I slowly crept towards Jon, like a predator catching its prey, then I pounced on top of him, slamming my hips down onto his member.

"Oh fuck!"

Jon threw his head back and moaned helplessly, bucking his hips into my beaver. I bit my lip, holding my hips down for Jon to grind against, feeling powerful on top of him. I quietly whimpered when his bulge rubbed against my clit.

"You're so fucking hot…I need to go down on you…" I groaned, lifting up Jon's shirt and trailing hungry kisses down his hairy torso, him squealing when I nibbled at his nipple.

When I reached Jon's crotch area, it was warm and throbbing for me, a strangely comforting and cuddly feeling, even though it was a sexual situation. Jon whined when I cupped his clothed nuts and traced my tongue along his trapped length, placing kisses on his swollen tip through the elastic fabric. I teasingly nuzzled Jon's tip with my nose and kissed down his shaft to his balls, earning cute twitches from his cock. I slowly licked up between his nads and trailing lightly at the base of his cock with my fingers.

He's so cute, it hurts…

I turned my head to the side and put his shaft in my mouth corn-on-the-cob-style. I moved up and down, my tongue tracing the bulging muscle on the front.

"Oh, Y/N…" Jon keened, gripping my hair and humping into my face desperately.

I gripped Jon's erection and started slowly stroking him through his boxers, making his pretty little head fall back and making whimpers tumble from his cute lips. Continuing the teasing with my mouth while I stroked him, I cooed,

"You're so cute when you're all flustered like that…"

Finally gathering up enough strength to say something clearly, he replied with,

"Just imagine what you'll be like later…"

Feeling challenged, I yanked down Jon's underwear and sucked his tip hard, making him gasp and turning his cocky words into loud moans. Snickering at his duality, I slowed down again, sliding my wet tongue all over his tip sweetly while looking up into the prettiest eyes to ever exist. In between tingly licks, I pressed loving, gentle kisses to Jon's tip, precum sticking to my lips. When Jon bucked his hips into my face and groaned, I decided to stop teasing. I started pumping his wet shaft at a medium pace and sucking hard, twisting my neck different ways and putting my tongue on the bottom of his dick while I sucked his soul out, earning the sexiest moans and whimpers any ears could experience. Jon's grip on my hair pushed me down to deepthroat him, making me grip onto his feminine thighs for extra endurance.

"Oh my god, Y/N, you're so good at that…Oh shit!"

Jon yelped when I spread his legs out and started going faster, squeezing his nuts lightly. The saliva dripping from my occupied tongue trailed into the hand that squeezed Jon, lubing up his sensitive areas and making him lose his damn mind down my throat. Jon desperately fucked my face, rambling curses and praises while nearly ripping out my hair. I flicked my tongue wherever it could and went deeper, fitting Jon's whole shaft down my throat and increasing suction at the back of my throat.

"You're gonna make me bust twelve nuts at once, fuck…"

Already soaking wet, I ground my clothed pussy into the heel of my boot, needy for friction while I continued blowing Jon hard for the next several moments; I lost track of time in a fit of desire. I looked up at Jon again while he was nearing his orgasm, earning the view of a pretty head tilted back all the way and a spotted neck above a dark green heavy jacket.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, good god, Y/N you're so…" Jon stammered, my wet, tight mouth driving him to insanity.

Once I started gagging, I pulled off and slobbered all over his cock, pumping his squelching cock with a vice-grip. Jon's pretty unit glistened in the lantern's light, all red, throbbing, and tingly. I dived back down and continued my attack, arching my ass up in the air and going all the way down, more precum leaking down my throat. My tongue explored him, tasting his desire for me.

"Oh god, oh my-oh shit!!"

Warm, salty, delicious ribbons of semen shot down my throat for each one of Jon's strained moans as he tugged on the roots of my hair, making me whimper a bit. He desperately fucked into my face, drunk on both beer and his need to cum. I took every drop down my throat, like I had always fantasized. Once Jon was done, he shakily leaned forward and caressed my raised ass.

"That was the best…fucking head…I've ever gotten…even compared to my own hand…" He panted, giving my butt cheek a squeeze.

I hummed and licked the remaining cum up his shaft teasingly, planting more sweet kisses to the tip, making him twitch and groan.

"Fuckin' tease…" Jon growled, smacking my ass.

I gasped and whimpered on his cock, not used to him being all dominant like that. My time was over.

"C'mere…" Jon said again, trailing his hand up my back.

I sat up and straddled his lap, looking down at his cute face and caressing it.

"Hi…" I giggled tipsily.

"Hey…" Jon replied before suddenly whirling me around, throwing me down under him with my back hitting the thin mattress.

I could feel my panties overflowing as my dominant demeanor dropped. Jon was in control now.

"We might wanna go home for what I'm about to do…" He breathed, his teeth scraping against the shell of my ear.

I trembled underneath Jon, feeling up his body as I nodded, both of us leaving the truck. We took a tense bus ride to my apartment, and once we arrived, we ran out, throwing the driver a dollar. Once the bus was gone, Jon lunged at my lips, grabbing me by the face and pulling me into him. I hugged around his waist and raked my nails up his back again, groping and scratching wherever I could reach. Jon pushed me to the stairs, traveling with me on his lips the whole way up to my apartment.

"Fuck…"

I fumbled with my keys to find the right one, Jon leering behind me impatiently, needing to fuck my brains out. Once I found the key and unlocked the door, Jon grabbed me and pinned me up against the wall, slamming the door behind him with his foot. He crashed his lips into mine, gripping my face hard enough to break my jaw while I shifted into him as much as possible, raking my fingers under his shirt after he took off his jacket. I quickly put down my purse before pulling into Jon harder.

"Mmh-.…" Jon moaned into my mouth at the mercy of my cold fingers.

Jon gripped my hair, and his tongue slithered between my teeth into my mouth, challenging my tongue to a battle for dominance (his obviously won).

I've always wanted his sexy body pressed up against mine…

Still making out, Jon led me to my pullout couch bed I slept on and pushed me down onto it, crawling on top of me. After giving me one last peck, he removed his shirt and undid his belt, throwing both on the floor. He came back down and started kissing my neck again, sucking and harshly biting my throat while pulling my hair, drawing an erotic whimper between my lips. Jon did his signature chuckle against my neck.

"Told you…"

I wrapped my legs around Jon's waist and humped into his crotch, making him groan against my neck.

"So…so…desperate…"

He took off my jacket and shirt, throwing it with his clothes.

"So pretty…"

Pale hands and long fingers immediately latched to my breasts, squeezing the plump flesh through my bra in an insane and hungry manner, making me dizzy with arousal. I was helpless under Jonathan, so pathetic I couldn't even speak. All I could do was whine and whimper into his mouth as we ate each other's lips hungrily.

"Please…Please, Jon, let's fuck…" I keened, my face hot and flushed a deep red.

Jon bit his lip, wanting nothing more than to pound me open.

"…I'm gonna need to prep you first…"

Yanking off my bra, Jon lunged at my tits, not caring what they looked like enough to look at them first. He buried his face between them, enjoying my warm skin against the sides of his face and leaving purple hickeys. My breath hitched in my throat, stopped by his demanding mouth. I gasped when Jon's tongue glided to my nipple and started sliding around comfortably, the tiny tingles in my chest and cunt making me whimper more. I helplessly ran my fingers through his dreads roughly while he gently attacked my tits, making him hum at the feeling and crack a smirk against my nip. More hickeys were sucked and bitten onto my chest and neck, making sure to leave no bald spots. Jon pulled back to admire the number he did on my chest, now covered in deep purple and red blotches.

I love his biting love language…

While he was up, I took the ample time to admire how pretty Jonathan is, running my fingers around his thin waist, his soft chest and tummy, his body hair that was strangely comforting, like every other part of him.

He's nothing short of an angel…

Completely smitten, I sat up under Jon and started kissing his chest, feeling his warm skin under my lips while still feeling up his body. I tugged down his pants a little, signaling them to come off. He obliged and pulled them off, only wearing red boxers bearing a throbbing erection before flashing a sexy smirk and pushing me back down.

"Be patient, Y/N…"

Jon nuzzled between my ribs before trailing kisses down my tummy, stopping at my pelvis, the anticipation of my wet pussy on his lips making me shiver. He undid my belt and pulled down my pants, throwing them onto the pile on the floor. When I looked down, I swear Jon was drooling when he saw my panty-clad core.

What a great day to wear gray panties…

Jon could see every ounce of wetness caused by him for himself; he could see, feel, and taste what he did.

"Oh my god…" Jon groaned before tearing off my panties hungrily, needing my pussy like oxygen.

He took a second to look at his midnight snack, a string of drool dripping onto my throbbing clit, making me bite my lip. Jon dived down to nip at my inner thighs, trying with all his being not to immediately start eating me out. I whined, and my pussy twitched, needing Jon's mouth. Unable to contain himself, he swiftly attached his mouth to my soaking cunt, nudging his mouth between my red, puffy folds and tasting my wetness.

"Mmh…you taste…so good…"

Jon slowly started licking up and down with his long tongue, making me gasp every time his tongue flicked against my clit. He snickered against me when he heard my little noises, proud of his dizzying tongue skills. My poor cunny was engulfed between Jon's pretty lips as he suckled on my clit, circling it with his tongue.

"Ah…Jon…that feels so-…good……" I whimpered and moaned helplessly, pushing back the dreads in his angelic face.

Moving his head side to side, Jon snaked his long fingers to tease around my entrance before easing two into it. Tingly sensations shot up and down my spine, producing more wetness to coat Jon's mouth and chin.

"Oh god….tastes so fucking good….." Jon huffed into my messy cunny, pumping his fingers faster and slurping my whole pussy hungrily.

I could feel the knot in my tummy start to tighten to the point of unraveling while Jon pushed his mouth deeper, paying the most attention to my clit.

"Oh my god, Jon….please don't stop….I'm gonna cum…." I whined, followed by more pathetic inaudible moaning.

Jon's actions became desperate, him moaning into my pussy while he devoured me senseless and punched my g-spot swiftly.

"Ah, fuck!" I squealed, my pussy pulsating as I released in Jon's pretty mouth, my back arching almost ninety degrees and my pussy magnetically attached to Jon's mouth.

He moaned relentlessly and drank up all my juices, swallowing me whole and trying to get more like he was starving. With a loud pop, Jon released my quivering pussy from his mouth, crawling back up to my eye-level with a cum-coated grin.

"How was that?"

My face red, I replied shakily,

"Fucking crazy…"

I pulled him back down to kiss me, tasting my salty cum on his lips.

"Ew…" I giggled, nuzzling his cute nose.

Jon snickered and pecked my lips again.

"Yum."

I was oblivious to the party upstairs until "Closer" started playing right as Jon crawled back up to me.

Shit's going down…

I fired a Kubrick stare at Jon and started teasing his erect cock with my fingers again while taking off his boxers, a pretty cock springing out, ready to fuck.

"Oh god, Y/N…"

Jon violently shoved my legs over his shoulders, throwing me upside down and angling me so he could pile-drive me insane. Leering down at me, he slapped his tip on my wet entrance, triggering a quiet moan and a lip bite in both of us.

~~you let me violate you~~

Jon slowly pushed himself inside me, his teeth gritting when he hit contact with my tight insides.

"Shit…" I moaned, my eyes rolling back in my head while I squeezed his unit hard.

With that, Jon started moving in in and out slowly, leaning forward a bit to get closer to me. I could feel his cock breaking my pussy in, claiming it as its new home.

~~I broke apart my insides…~~

"You good?" Jon breathed, subdued by my vice grip.

I nodded, needing him to go faster. He leaned forward more to hold himself up on my shoulders at a dizzying angle that could have anyone screaming in no time. Jon changed his pace from slow to medium, both of us choking out heated whimpers and moans. It was like our genitals were becoming inseparable friends, like a magnetic field inside me.

The view is so beautiful…

Jon smeared his face with desperation, his chest hair, eyes, and forehead shining with sweat in my dimly-lit apartment, tints of dark orange and yellow saturating him into the dark, raggedy, peeling room. I felt up his skinny waist, him fitting easily in my hands while I trailed them all over his back and torso.

"Ahh…."

Jon's movements turned into thrusts as he held onto my leg for leverage, kissing it between loud moans.

I swear, his moans could kill god…they're so hot, holy fucking Christ…

"oh-Oh god, Jon, fuck!…." I cried when Jon snapped his hips into my g-spot.

~~help me get away from myself…~~

~~I wanna fuck you like an animal…~~

I cried out when Jon slammed himself forward to clasp his hand around my throat and pummel my g-spot repeatedly, groaning and pussydrunk.

"I'm using…this-oh fuck!- this pretty pussy tonight…"

With an erotic moan, I thrusted back into him and did a Kegel, causing a yelp to jump from Jon's chest before he fell down to me.

"Do that again…"

I squeezed another cock-crushing Kegel around Jon's throbbing cock, earning the hottest whimper known to this earth right in my ear.

"…so good to me…"

His groans becoming carnal, and dangerous, Jon gripped the roots of my hair and starting pounding me into oblivion, my g-spot crying from all the battery. It felt like we fused together, like a loud, sweaty, horny creature whimpering, moaning, and producing every bodily fluid possible.

~~you can have my everything…~~

I hooked my arms under Jon's lean shoulders, pulling his chest to mine and squishing my boobs under his.

Empty space isn't allowed between us…

Still gripping my hair, Jon scooched up, buried his face in the top of my head, and rammed into me harder, both of us groaning and shaking at the feeling of each other.

"Oh my god, Y/N…so….so…tight…..shit!"

I violently raked my nails down Jon's back, sending each other straight to paradise and desperate for more. Jon's growls turned into loud whimpers, pleas, and cries as he struck my g-spot even faster at the mercy of my fingernails.

"You feel s-so good, Jon…..I've b-been wanting th-this for so long…." I finally managed to choke out through erotic noises.

Jon crashed his lips into mine, gripping my throat and jaw with brute force and sloppily pounding my cunt open.

"I have too…but I didn't-…know you'd be…this crazy…"

Jon reached his hand down to flick my clit, making me squeak and dig my nails harder. He groaned loudly, and his head fell to the crook of my neck.

~~my existence is flawed...~~

~~you get me closer to god…~~

Jon choked out various whimpers and loud, desperate moans into my ear, holding me down and pounding my gushing pussy open.

"Fuck, Jon…!" I yelped when he deepened his thrusts to the maximum and flicked my clit faster.

With a slutty groan, Jon bit down harshly on my neck, moaning on the marked skin,

"You're so fucking good….dirty slut…"

I hooked my legs around his hips and buried my face in his shoulder. Sounds of clapping, pornographic cries, and the painfully erotic song in the background seeped into my dim, filthy apartment. If I had not been horny, I would have cried tears of joy.

I dreamed about being with Jon for so long…It's just as amazing as I imagined…

I needed this pretty boy in my life and I finally have him…I love him so much…

I smothered kisses wherever I could reach on Jon's hot, sweaty skin, addicted to every part of him and never wanting to let go. He cried out when I bit down on his chest. Taking the hint, I bit another part of his chest and left a dark red hickey, my g-spot being destroyed in the process, distracting me and making me nearly fall back in a fit of slutty moaning.

"Shit, Y/N, I'm close…." Jon choked into my ear, followed by a harsh bite on my neck.

The dizzying feeling of nirvana crept into my tummy, my walls twitching on Jon's throbbing cock.

"Oh god, yes! Right there…" My back arched, and my head craned backwards into my pillow.

Thank god Livvie's out on a business trip…

"Fuck, Y/N!" Jon cried out, grabbing my hips and leaning backwards, exposing his decorated neck.

~~you are the reason I stay alive…~~

Jon's pretty eyes were fixated on my pussy gripping him, my thighs clapping at an inhumane speed against his.

"Oh god, I'm cumming!!"

When the song ended, Jon released strings of hot cum into me, quickly followed by a euphoric wave crashing over me and my pussy coming undone with my cum while I rubbed my clit. Jon's signature growls and whimpers trailed to my buried ears, causing my pussy to squeeze more cum out of Jon. Once we finished, Jon collapsed onto me, panting heavily into my neck. I heaved hot breaths under Jon and rubbed his clawed back, planting a sweet kiss on his shoulder. We laid there for a few minutes, trying to comprehend how happy we were with each other.

"…you good?..." I breathed, feeling the back of his neck.

Jon nodded.

"…yeah…what about you?...you doin' alright?"

Jon raised himself up and caressed my red cheek. I smiled up at him and said,

"Never better."

Leaning back on his knees, Jon reached out for my hands, taking them and pulling me to him, catching me in his arms.

"Round two?" Jon asked, brushing a strand of hair out of my face.

I ran my hands up his thighs and obliged, desperate for more. Jon held my face sweetly and pecked my lips.

"Ride me?"

When I heard those words, I toppled on top of Jon and positioned his tip at my entrance.

"Anything for you, Jonathan Davis…"

Flashing a dangerous grin, Jon smacked my ass and grabbed my hips.

"Such an impatient little whore…"

With a bone-breaking grip on my hips, Jon started grinding my cunt against his shaft, his head falling back in tingly pleasure.

"So wet…feels so good…"

I instinctively tried to buck my hips forward, but Jon spanked me again, tightening his grip.

"My pace."

With that, I continued to let Jon get off on my pussy, biting my lip and moaning quietly at the feeling of his hard cock against my clit. When Jon let go of my hips a bit due to the pleasure, I leaned back and held myself up, my hands on his knees. I started shoving my pussy farther into Jon's shaft, making him groan and completely engulfing it with my folds, leaning my head back and splaying out my boobs. Shortly, Jon pushed me off and huffed,

"Alright, NOW you can ride me..."

I snickered, swinging a leg over his and wrapping my arm around his neck, using the other to position his tip at my entrance. As soon as the head entered me, my eyes rolled back into my head.

"Ohhh my fucking god…" I groaned, pushing myself deeper.

Jon craned his neck back and moaned loudly while my pussy swallowed his cock whole. I felt so powerfu, like I had him in the palm of my hand. I slowly started moving up and down, clenching his cock like Andre the Giant was squeezing it in a massive fist. In mere minutes, Jon changed from a cocky dickhead to a whimpering, pleading mess inside me.

"God, I love you…" Jon growled, weaving his fingers into my hair and grabbing my face before pulling my lips to his.

When I sank down, I moaned pathetically into his mouth, squeezing my thighs around his.

"I love you more… I pulled away and wrapped my arms around Jon's neck, angling my pussy better to fit his fat cock.

Resting my head against the wall behind Jon, I picked up the pace, arching my back for maximum ass-bouncing efficiency. My walls crushed his cock so hard it made his head spin like he was getting fucked senseless instead of me.

"Ahhh Y/N!!" Jon cried, so deep in euphoria that he was nearly overstimulated.

Feeling too powerful, I went faster, overstimulating him and making him squeal like a little girl. He twitched rapidly underneath me, gripping my hips so hard it nearly broke the thick skin down there. I kept going, enjoying seeing Jon writhe underneath me. Trying to get revenge, Jon started sucking my left nipple and flicking my clit hard, triggering a pornographic moan to fall from my lips and more wetness to gather on his cock.

His dick is so sensitive, it's so cute…

I looked at him while bouncing with a Kubrick stare through my shaggy, long black hair, resembling a sex gremlin with tits. This attribute turned him on to the maximum.

"Fuck, you're so hot, Y/N…I wanna fucking destroy you…"

Speeding up more until I hit my maximum speed and depth, I pounded myself onto Jon's dick hard, the moaning and clapping louder than ever in the heated room. I rode this man like I would never walk again, unable to get my hands or pussy off his hot body.

"Oh god! Right there!!"

"Shit, Y/N!"

Jon suddenly trapped me in a big bear hug and slammed up into me rapidly, needing to cum more than anything. I hugged my arms around his neck and squeaked and whimpered into his ear, making him growl various praises to me.

"Fuuuck, you're gonna be the death of me…"

"You're gonna make me cum again, baby…"

"You want me to make you squirt like a little dirty slut, huh?"

Jon rolled over on top again, positioned my ass was in the air, and pounded me fast and violent like a hungry animal catching its prey.

…the best way to die…

I could feel butterflies raving in my stomach as my climax neared its time. I could tell Jon was close too.

…shit, do I need to pee or am I gonna squirt?...

"Oh my god, Y/N I'm cumming!!"

"Me too, oh fuck!"

A harsh stream of wetness shot from me onto Jon's sexy pelvis, soaking his nuts and pubes.

"Oh my fucking god, Y/N…that was so hot…"

Jon flicked my clit with his fingers so fast it made my head spin while he kept fucking me, trying to cum again. The pleasure of him continuing with me after I came and him flicking my clit hard made me bury my face into the pillows and twitch violently, squeaking like a mouse and tears pricking at my eyes. I could hear him nearly screaming as he and I came close to our second orgasms.

"Oh god, oh my- fuck!!" Jon cried out as he fucked the living daylights out of my twitching cunny.

Once he finished, Jon lazily flipped me around and gently laid beside me. When I saw him, his eyes glistened, and he was panting. I turned on my side to face him and wrapped my arms and legs around him like a koala, burying my face in his shoulder.

"Awww." Jon beamed, turning to face me and wrapping me in his comfy arms.

I snuggled up into his chest, happier than ever before.

…I finally have him all to myself…

Jon kissed my head repeatedly, just as happy as I was. We lay there panting for a few minutes before Jon said,

"…glad I could get that off my chest…"

I hugged him tighter.

"…me too, honey bun…"

He chuckled and nuzzled my hair.

"…are you sleepy?..."

"…not really…just relaxed…" I replied, my eyes slowly fluttering.

Jon took a thick strand of my hair into his mouth.

"…i'm hungry…wanna order pizza and watch movies?..."

My stomach growled right as he said that. I hadn't eaten dinner yet and it was almost midnight.

"…mmh…yes please…"

Jon sat up groggily, bringing me up with him. He was strong despite his skinny frame. My head fell on his shoulder, still hugging him. He quietly laughed.

"Babyyy, I need to get the phone…"

I sighed, not wanting to let go.

"…ok, but i'm coming with you…"

Jon chuckled,

"Fiiine…"

Jon struggled to get up with my arms around him, but he finally managed to do so, butt-naked and dizzyingly happy. I shuffled with him to the telephone, hugging him from behind around his skinny waist.

"What kind do you want?"

"…pepperoni and onion…"

"Me too."

Jon dialed Tony's Pizzeria lazily, resting his tired head against the wall.

"Yeah, hi. One large pepperoni and onion pizza please…yeah thanks, see you…"

Jon hung up, turning around to give me a big bear hug.

"I love you."

I nuzzled into his chest.

"I love you more, Jonathan…"

Jon picked me up, straining a bit.

"Lies."

I wrapped my legs around his waist and kissed him.

"Truths."

Jon carried me back to the bed and laid me down, crawling onto me. He kissed my cheeks sweetly.

"Yeah, well I love you just as much…"

Before I could protest, Jon kissed my lips.

"You better not say shit…"

I laughed, pulling him into me. He giggled against my neck, pecking it softly.

"Okay, fine…you win…"

Jon laughed evilly and laid beside me, pulling me into his chest and stroking my hair. I koala-hugged him again, squishing my cheek against his chest.

…he's all mine now…he's my boyfriend…or at least he's acting like it…

I couldn't believe it; the boy I had loved since I was a freshman in high school was holding me tight in my bed, squeezing me and kissing me because he loved me.

He loves me…?

Even though Jon told me he loved me and fucked the dogshit out of me, I couldn't convince myself that he, let alone anyone, liked or loved me; I hated myself so much. In the time spent in silence cuddling, I had time to think.

I hate thinking so much.

I felt stinging tears well in my eyes.

…he's too good for me…he's out of my league…i'm such a piece of shit…

Jon noticed my sniffling and immediately sat up, pulling me into another hug.

"Oh god, baby…what's wrong?"

Jon pulled away and held my face, wiping away my tears. When I saw his concerned expression, I sobbed, burying my face in his bare shoulder. He stroked my hair and rubbed my back, sweetly muttering words of comfort to me.

"It's okay Y/N, take your time, baby…"

Embarrassing sobs escaped my eyes, nose, and mouth as I tried to explain myself.

"I…I just…"

I broke down again, Jon humming and stroking my hair.

"I…I hate myself so much… and I keep thinking I'm forcing you into this…and that nobody actually loves me when they say they do; I think they're lying…"

I felt like I was talking out of my butt right to my high school crush.

"…baby…why would I say I love you if I didn't mean it?"

That contradicted all my illogical thinking, stumping me.

"I….I dunno…I-I'm sorry, I'm not making any sense…" I replied, feeling helpless.

Jon held my face, caressing my cheeks and gazing lovingly into my eyes.

"Y/N, You're my best friend, well, now you're more than that but you WERE my best friend all throughout high school. You loved me like no one else. Why would I think you weren't good enough for me?"

I hung my head in embarrassment.

"I…I dunno…I'm sorry Jon, I just-"

Jon cut me off by connecting his lips to mine for a long kiss. He held the small of my back, and I moved my hands to his hair and around his neck.

"Don't apologize, Y/N…There's no need to…I love you…

We continued sweetly making out, just like we did in the snow. My bare skin locked with his, and it felt so good; rough hands ran along my back tattoos, tracing my shoulder blades and my ribs. I played with his dreadlocks with one hand while trailing the other one all over his shoulders and chest, him humming at my gentle touch. It felt like I was in heaven, like an angel blessed me with Jon. We kept making out sweetly until we suddenly heard a loud knock, startling us both. When we realized we were completely naked, Jon panicked, quickly throwing on his boxers and a random hoodie while I got up and searched my purse for a five dollar bill. Once I found it, I passed it to Jon, and he opened the door, blushing profusely.

"H…Hey, what's up?" Jon stuttered when he opened the door.

The delivery guy chuckled and said,

"Nothin' much, thanks for the cash, you have a good one."

"You too."

Once the door closed, Jon set down the pizza on the kitchen counter and lunged back at me, tackling me in another big bear hug.

"Jonathan!" I squealed, caught off guard.

He laughed and kissed me again, resuming our makeout session. Jon set me on his lap, allowing me to envelop his neck in my arms and comfortably hold him while he gently held my waist, rubbing my back sweetly.

"…we should probably eat that before it gets cold..."

Jon's tummy growled.

"Agreed."

Putting on a pair of boxers, a comfy Aerosmith t-shirt, and a thick, fluffy hoodie, I snuggled up next to Jon, who had already turned on The X-Files and was waiting for me with pizza and open arms before I came to him. Engulfed in each other, we finished our pizza and binged countless episodes, our minds calmed and forgetting about the earlier events.

…I have him now…that's all that matters…

At around two in the morning, Jon flopped his head against my chest and asked me to turn off the TV. We were both unbearably sleepy.

"…can I turn on my fan?..."

"…i was just about to ask you that…i hate silence…"

I carefully laid sleeping beauty down and turned on my fan, taking my sleeping meds and brushing my teeth on the way back. Jon used my toothbrush after me, which I somehow found adorable. Once I got back, I nestled into Jon's chest under thick, fluffy blankets and held him close. He dragged his fingers through my scalp, creating the effect of a horse tranquilizer.

…he's magic…

Jon sleepily placed tiny kisses on my embraced head, nuzzling my scalp with his nose and fingers.

"…i love you so much, Jon…i wanna be your S/O…" I murmured, feeling his arms tighten around me.

"…i'm all yours, Y/N…i'm your boyfriend…i love you too; so, so, so, so much…"

My sleepy head lay in Jon's protective arms, under warm blankets as I drifted into a deep sleep, never having slept that peacefully since I was in a coma. I remember dreaming about some guy dressed as a celery stick and buying a house where Jim Carrey was my realtor. It was a nice dream, in sweet arms, in a comfy bed.

…i never had all three until now…

…i love him so much…

THE NEXT MORNING:

"…oh and in case I don't see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and JESUS CHRIST WHAT IS THAT?!?!-"

…..fwoooosh…..

krkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkr…..

The rattling windows and snowstorm outside awoke me from my dream, groggy eyes still closed and my surroundings still unclear. I felt well-rested, like I had slept for several days. I huddled back in my blankets and lay with my eyes closed and a familiar essence surrounding me. It was a comforting essence, like one of a sleepy cat. Once I noticed the arms loosely draped around me, I slowly fluttered my eyes open, coming face-to-face with an adorable sleeping Jonathan. My heart immediately warmed when I remembered the night before; all the revenge, fighting, cuddling, kissing, and a nice hardcore fuck. I gave Jon a light kiss on his nose and closed my eyes again, too sleepy and cuddly to think about my internal struggles. Jon's soft embrace and warmth melted my troubles like an ice cube in hot tea, making me sleepy. I felt myself drifting in and out of sleep, Jim and the celery guy reappearing to try and sell me an inexpensive but great house. It was a one-story shack-like abode with a dirty, stone-floored basement and a couch and TV right in the middle of all the filth.

…perfect for me and jon…

Once I woke up again, I huddled up to Jon as stealthily as possible, not wanting to disturb his peaceful sleep. However, soon after I cuddled him, he shifted semi-consciously and instinctively hugged me close to him, groaning a bit in his sleepy state. I hugged Jon tighter and kissed his nose again, humming in his warm embrace. The frigid, howling winds outside my apartment calmed me down as I fell asleep one more time, a warm snuggle engulfing me into another dream about Jim and the celery man. This time, it was a recap of the night before, the celery man sharpening a celery stick and slitting Monica's throat with it, then Jim Carrey delivering a cheesy one-liner, then chopping her in half with an axe.

"How you like them celery sticks?-"

FWOOOSH

When my eyes fluttered open, my face got buried in a Pantera hoodie, and my scalp massaged gently. Jon was awake. I hummed and wrapped my legs around him, holding him tight. He giggled, ruffling my hair.

"…g'morning…"

"…g'morning…" I murmured, snuggling him a little harder.

Jon rubbed my head a little more, still being gentle. I hummed against him at the relaxing feeling.

"you're making me sleepy…"

Jon giggled and kissed the top of my head.

"mmh…can't have that happening, It's already 2:35 p.m…"

"oh really?..."

"yeah."

Jon sat up, resting his head on the headboard, leaving my sleepy head in his lap. I huddled up into him like a sleepy dog, trying to get as close as possible to him.

"Babe, if you do that you're gonna give me morning wood." Jon laughed, pulling me up into his chest and stroking my hair.

"…mmh, sorry hon…" I murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"It's okay, baby…no need to apologize…"

I love Jon so much. He makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside, kills the alcoholic drug addict in me, and makes me a cuddly bastard…

After a few moments of warm cuddles and random conversation, Jon asked,

"You doing anything for Christmas?"

I shook my head.

"Nope. Ever since I moved out, my extended family never wants to see me again."

Jon hummed, nuzzling the top of my head.

"Wanna spend Christmas with me and my mom?" He asked.

My heart jumped out of my throat with that sentence. Fully awake now, I sat up and faced Jon.

"Wha- Really?! I mean-…Are they okay with it?"

"Of course, they're okay with it! They love you."

I almost started crying again.

"Jon….What did I do to deserve you?"

I held his pretty face in my hands and kissed his lips.

…pepperoni…

My heart wrenched at the offer. I wanted to turn it down in humility, but I wanted to be a part of the Davis family so badly.

"You were my best and only friend throughout high school and after; I should be asking that question…"

Overcome with insane amounts of serotonin, I threw my arms around Jon's neck and pulled him into a massive hug, burying my face into his shoulder.

"I can't believe this…"

"I can." Jon beamed, chewing on a strand of my hair.

He pulled me into his lips, kissing me passionately and holding my head against his, initiating another lazy makeout session. Jon spun us around and sat on my lap, holding my face while I hugged his tiny waist. He squished my cheeks and caressed them lovingly as if I was a five-foot-two teddy bear. After several minutes, Jon pulled away, still holding my face.

"Wanna get breakfast and play in the snow?"

I pecked his nose.

"I'd love nothing more…"

212 notes · View notes

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year

Text

Consecrated: A Malevolent Fanfic

It’s time to obey. Arthur has healed enough, and it’s time to mark the damn human.

Hastur does not want to do it, but has one advantage: he remembers The Wood. John doesn’t. At the very least, he can make it all hurt.

Hastur’s never done this to someone… occupied before. What difference could that possibly make, anyway?

(Takes place in the Surrogate series, after The Night Before.)

Written by me and @sepiabandensis

AO3

-----------

There was no crackle of magic or slamming of doors. There was only a change in pressure as the King in Yellow arrived like a thunderstorm rolling over a city and drenching it in icy rains.

John had time to think, he was right—this is weird, before Hastur billowed into the room like a terrible omen.

Arthur stood from the piano and hung his head, face turned down.

For one moment—one ordinary, everyday, horrible moment—they merely existed at each other, mutual hate sickening the air like burnt sugar.

"You're awake," the god rumbled, surveying him, and plucked at Arthur's robe with a tentacle. "And you seem to have healed adequately. That is…" He paused and made a sound like he’d bitten into some sort of bitter fruit. "Good.”

John wielded his left hand and swatted the appendage away. Fuck off, Hastur.

"I suppose, since you're healed, there can be no further delay," the King said, reaching to adjust the robe again, his voice clear and calm despite the deep, mechanical growl permeating the room. "Thus, as we previously discussed, he will be marked tonight."

Arthur stepped slightly back, pulling his robe from Hastur’s grasp. “Marked?”

John made the strangest noise. Choked. Sort of hit.

“Yes, of course,” Hastur said easily. “You remember, Piece. We agreed to wait until he was well enough to avoid potential… complications.”

Arthur’s brow knit. He remembered no such thing—but then, he’d lost pieces of time ever since that horrible, wonderful day when Faroe came back, so this did not shake him.

John, on the other hand, was shook. You wouldn’t dare.

“Dare?” Hastur sounded incredulous. “Piece, we agreed. It is the only way to keep him safe. Surely, you didn’t forget.”

And for reasons Arthur could not fathom, John promptly went off. FUCK YOU, YOU COCKSUCKING, ROT-BRAINED, CUCKOLDING, SLIME-EATING, SON OF A DEFLATED WAR-WHALE! YOU WILL NOT!

Arthur gasped, hunching. It had hurt. That bellow hurt. “Wh… what… John?”

HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE—

“What’s this?” said Hastur as though in the face of social blunder, sweeping away the bellowing like sand in wind. “You aren’t prepared? I’ve given you weeks!”

Arthur swallowed. “What’s… John, what’s he talking about?”

YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM! NOT LIKE THAT!

Arthur staggered again. “John,” he whispered.

“What is this sudden recalcitrance? Is this a delaying tactic? Why, next you’re going to say you haven’t had time to tell him, or you need more time to discuss it. Piece… do you really think such machinations will change anything?”

NEVER! NOT YOURS! WE NEVER DISCUSSED ANYTHING!

Arthur reached up and gripped the side of his head. “John, please, it hurts,” he whispered.

John stopped, puffing like a bellows.

Hastur sighed—a long-suffering and poisonously condescending sound—and began to pace. “I knew you’d be a problem. Piece, we discussed this.” A weighted pause. “You do want to protect him, don’t you?”

Bullshit! This would do the opposite of protecting him!

“John,” Arthur said again, very quietly.

Arthur, shut up. You don’t know what this is. You don’t know what he’s threatening. He has no right to do this to you!

A pregnant pause. “You really don’t remember, do you?” Hastur said, sounding far too pleased.

And there was just enough of an answering pause to indicate… doubt. I would have remembered that, you coward, you thief, you piece of thumbsucking garbage.

Hastur laughed. “Thief? Fine words from one who rides a thief like a donkey.”

BASTARD!

Arthur flinched.

“Piece, this is hardly my idea.” Hastur flowed across the floor like liquid, getting right in their face, backing them against the bench. “The Great Mother has forced my hand. Personally, I would rather chew a dozen arms off than touch your disgusting host, but it has been commanded.”

This is bullshit. You are full of bullshit. You are lying!

Hastur’s sigh carried weight. “We spoke on it at length in her realm, you and I. I tried to argue with her, and so did you—she called you a ‘bold little thing.’” Hastur spoke with the confidence of honesty—or of a damn good liar. “She threatened to take Faroe, Piece. And Arthur, as much as I despise you, I will not allow that to happen, so if this is the price, we will pay it together.”

“Faroe?”

Because of course, John thought, of course the asshole would use her name like he used her life, to hit, and hurt, and cut, and ruin, and— Bullshit!

“What about Faroe?” Arthur had the scent now, and could not be shaken loose.

“I was…” Another pause, a growl, like the words were dragged from him by force. “I made an error when my negligence allowed my sister to slip past my wards.”

You mean when she fucking skinned him and you let her do it?

Hastur addressed Arthur now, as if John were no longer part of the discussion. “The Great Mother believes that I put her child in danger by not keeping track of threats toward you, and that if I did not rectify this, she would retrieve her child… and take her child’s darling new friend with her.”

“She’d take Faroe?”

That was a yell.

Arthur used to yell a lot. He hasn’t yelled since… since it happened. But that was a yell.

For her.

Arthur was so focused that John could just shake him. John explodes. No! You may not mark him! I forbid it!

Hastur’s laugh was dark and deep, a forest of lies and mockery. “You forbid?”

There is no fucking way the Lord of the Wood told you to mark a human!

Hastur scoffed. “You think I’d lie about this?” His tentacles lashed the air as if he wanted to rend something. “Very well, Piece. Since you refuse to believe me, I will show you.”

The memory hit like a brick.

The Wood, which neither of them can recall, which even in recollection makes Arthur cry out, crouch down, cover his head with both arms.

The Presence, all around, of the Great Mother goddess, too much for even John to comprehend, even in this brief and eclipsed view.

And on the ground, Arthur.

And in his blood, Arthur.

And looking like some kind of ill-used anatomy model, Arthur, barely breathing, barely living, so much worse from Hastur’s point of view than John had ever imagined.

BOLD LITTLE THING, came the voice in memory, shaking their minds like heavy boots on flimsy boards. BUT THIS IS NOT FOR YOU. HASTUR, I WOULD LIKE TO REST, AND DO NOT ENJOY BEING WOKEN IN THE NIGHT BY MY OFFSPRING’S DISTRESS, SO LET’S MAKE THIS… SIMPLE? FIRST, YOU WILL MARK HIM.

“I will not,” Hastur cried.

IF YOU DO NOT, I WILL JUDGE YOU AN UNFIT FATHER, H’AAZTRE.

Hastur’s voice trembled in horror. “What?”

NIBBLES LIKES HER. I AM NOT PARTICULARLY CONCERNED WHO GETS THE TITLE OF ‘PET’ IN THIS CIRCUMSTANCE—BUT IF I HAVE TO TAKE FAROE FROM YOU, SHE WILL NOT BE RAISED… THE SAME WAY.

Stop! Stop! It was killing them, the voice was killing them—

It stopped.

“I could continue, of course,” Hastur said, pacing again like a patient teacher. “Perhaps I ought—as you do not seem to recall the discussion which followed.”

The confidence of honesty, or a damn good liar. Or maybe something in between.

John hadn’t pulled it together yet. Damn y…. Damn the… n… no. No. Hastur, no. There’s another way. No!

“Do it,” whispered Arthur.

Fucking hell, Arthur! No!

Shaking, panting, Arthur looked up. His nose bled. He wiped at it with his right hand, seeing nothing, speaking in Hastur’s general direction. “Do it.”

No!

“I won’t let her be taken, John!” Arthur snapped, voice ragged. “I won’t allow that! A pet? Faroe? I don’t care what it costs!”

It will cost you! John cried, voice cracking.

Hastur suddenly stiffened. “She’s back.”

And it was as though intermission fell, and behind the curtain, they all scrambled for their new places, resetting props, adjusting costumes.

Faroe danced in singing a song of her own creation, horrible goat-god-kid right on her heels. And as she handed them flowers, and told them the story she made up to go with each (fairly nonsensical, but she told them with passion), the welling grief and rage and smugness seemed to thicken the air until Arthur’s breath grew ragged.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he managed.

“Goodnight, Uncle Arthur, Mister John. Goodnight, daddy! I love you!” And Hastur got a hug.

She skipped off, telling her goat the same stories she’d told them, and they waited until her door closed before returning to the issue at hand.

Don’t, John said, and it was a sob.

“Now, Piece,” said Hastur, soothing, rumbling, pleased, because he knew he’d won. “Why would it cost him ? It won’t. He will be safer. You two could continue your ridiculous night-time meanderings without fear. You could leave the palace and collect my daughter’s favorite flowers, all without concern. My mark will protect him. You know this.”

And John wailed.

He could not know it was the same sound Hastur had made that night in the Wood, made upon the threat that Faroe would be taken.

“John!” said Arthur.

We can’t do this!

“Will it… remove you?” said Arthur, sounding slightly afraid.

“Why don’t you tell him what it will do, Piece?” rumbled Hastur. “You have three hours to… prepare yourselves in whatever way you see fit. I will have your outfit brought. Tonight, Composer and Piece. Tonight, this will be settled, and the Mother Goddess appeased.” And he left in a cloud of cruelty, while John’s metaphorical breath hitched and chugged, and Arthur sat back on his bench, aching and confused.

“John?”

It marks you, he said.

“I… sort of assumed that, what with it being called ‘marking,’” Arthur said slowly. “I don’t understand. Why does this matter?”

Because it’s permanent. Your soul will retain his fucking brand even after death. I can’t… it… fuck. Arthur, no. We can’t do this. No.

“She’ll take Faroe if we don’t,” Arthur said, still soft, still lost. “What does it matter, anyway? I’m here either way. It’s not like I was going to run. It doesn’t matter, John.”

It matters!

“Why?”

Because you’re mine!

Arthur fell silent.

John’s weeping was a terrible thing, deep like his laugh, frightening, weak.

Helpless.

“Your…” Arthur ventured at last. “Your what?”

This will make you his. He’ll always be able to find you. To feel you. You’ll never escape him.

“I wasn’t… planning on escaping, anyway, John,” Arthur murmurs.

I know! That isn’t the point! You’re mine! Not his! Not… not his.

Arthur played a middle C.

Held it. Let it ring. Let it sing while John’s snuffling slowed.

He moved into a simple, soft chord progression in a-minor, pulsing and slow.

“And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,” Arthur recited. “No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone; The flowers of the witch-hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?”

Wh… what? John said as the final chord faded.

“It’s a poem about what to do in the face of the unavoidable,” said Arthur, ponderously, as if pulling memories from a deep well. “The winter cannot be stopped. You come to the mighty oak, its leaves all gone. The flowers are dead, and nothing will bring those specific flowers back. But… you still… move on. You choose how to continue. You push through the winter, because… to give in would betray the very heart of what it is to be human. And because, if you press on long enough, John, Spring will come again.”

John’s voice dropped, awed, as always, by Arthur’s human mind. But you’ll still be his.

“I don’t know if I know what that means, John, but I think no matter what happens, I’m yours. And I think, no matter what happens, you’re mine. I think if he had the power to change that, he would have done it already.”

And that was a good point, and John wanted Arthur to feel so good about this, this first foray back into poetry, this first attempt he’d made at his old way of thinking before everything went so wrong.

But John couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t think of how to tell Arthur you’d be his in a way you can never be mine.

So instead, he said, Play Clair de Lune for me?

Arthur did, and Schumann’s Träumerei after that, and then Liszt’s Consolation No. 3, and then the Dancers arrived, and it was time to get dressed for the last night John would ever have Arthur to himself.

It wasn’t the same as his court composer outfit.

This one was light. The shirt was open at the throat and secured only by the wide, silky sash, which captured it in a vee at his waist. Skirted, pleated, distinctly swishy, this outfit was apparently standard for the one being marked, and Arthur was confused at the way it made him feel.

It moved when he walked. He wasn’t used to clothes that moved when he walked.

You… it works on you, John admitted, miserable. It’s just white and red, all of it; the white top and bottom will be stained with your blood, which the sash symbolizes for now.

“My blood? Fuck. Faroe won’t see this, will she?”

Always Faroe. Always fucking Faroe. I don’t know, Arthur. That’s his problem.

Arthur spun, puzzled. It felt nice, if weirdly exposed—which it wasn’t, because the damn thing brushed the tops of his feet. He had not been given shoes, and the flaring, fraying edges of material tickled his toes.

“How am I going to bleed? What’s he going to do, bite me?”

No. The way this normally works is he gives a great big fucking speech about how great he is for having found you—since you only matter in the way you make him look good—but in your case, I have a hard time believing he’s going to use it to build you up. It’ll probably be some kind of… shame-speech, where he has to do this because of how awful you are.

“You didn’t really answer me, John.”

John sighed. I… he’s not going to bite you. He’s going to stab you through the heart.

“He… he’s what? He’s what?”

It’s magic. All right? He’s going to do the incantation, and then he’s going to pierce through your heart with his arm. It’s going to hurt. It’s… also… John mumbled. Going to feel like bliss. Both at once. Some people vomit. Everybody passes out.

“I’m going to what?”

While emotion was nice to hear in Arthur’s voice, John wasn’t sure he wanted to encourage this particular panic. You’ll be fine. He… I… the whole point is he has to get inside you. Where… where I am.

“Fuck. Are you going to be hurt?”

I don’t know. I never did it to anyone who had someone inside them before. I don’t know what the fuck is going to happen.

Arthur’s fists clenched. “If he hurts you with this, I swear…”

I’m sure he won’t. He still thinks we’re going to reunite someday. He needs me.

“Right. Right.” Arthur frowned. “So he’s… going to gut me. Then what?”

While he’s doing that, he can touch your soul. I don’t know why it happens this way. It just fucking does. He’ll say the words, and… and you’ll be marked. You’ll resonate. You’ll… you’ll feel it. Then he pulls his arm out, you’re miraculously unharmed in spite of there being blood fucking everywhere, you pass out—because everybody passes out—and then they party around your unconscious but honored form. Or they usually do. For all I know, he’s going to have everyone take turns scraping off their boots in your hair.

“Fabulous image.” Arthur rubbed his chest, wincing at still-unhappy nerves, wondering just how much pain he had to take in the course of all of this before his body stopped feeling it already. “Is that all?”

Pretty much. Normally, there’s a smaller, second party when you wake up, as your cronies or whoever celebrate you as being favored by the king.

“Well, I’m not favored.”

Right. So. I don’t know how this will go.

Arthur sighed. “As long as Faroe isn’t part of this horror, I don’t care. And… as long as he doesn’t hurt you. I swear, John, if this harms you…”

It won’t. He didn’t know that. He was lying. He had to lie, for this. For him. I’ll be fine. But I can’t… you can only get marked once. I… I won’t ever…

“Please don’t tell me you’ve had fantasies of stabbing me through the heart and yelling nonsense in my face while I pass out and vomit,” said Arthur.

John laughed, and it almost didn’t sound like sobs. You’re getting good at these jokes lately.

“I’m just rediscovering sarcasm. Not sure that counts as humor.” Arthur sighed and sat down, rubbing his face. “I just want it to be over.”

He didn’t seem to notice that John hadn’t answered his question.

John was absolutely not going to bring it back up. It will be soon enough. I’ve got you, Arthur. I’ve got you.

They both felt Hastur coming, whatever mood he was in souring the air and sparking tiny electric arcs through the floor, along the walls, between Arthur’s teeth.

“Here we go,” Arthur muttered, and stood.

Hastur definitely had not planned this like an ordinary marking ceremony.

It wasn’t in the usual room—the Cathedral, with central altar high above the spiraling seats, with stalactites and stalagmites painted and glowing simply for aesthetics and awe.

Neither was it in the Great Field—a mysterious place where the soil hummed with power, where anything that grew did so with so much magic that it, alone, could fund a kingdom, and which Hastur had fought quite hard to own and punished trespassers with fire and pain.

This was just a room. A large room; Hastur had to be comfortable, of course, as did several of his larger sycophants, so it was high-ceilinged, politely whitewashed, with mullioned windows along one wall looking down upon a plain granite floor.

It was a classroom, for those rare seasons when Hastur’s people produced offspring that actually grew. Right now, it was unused—and he had not bothered to have his servants clean the cobwebs from the corners.

The student area was packed with important people who were, in a word, unused to being packed anywhere.

Especially into seats with attached desks, clearly not designed for adult creatures.

Sconces filled the room with a clean, white light, dull and academic. The seats creaked; the beings murmured. There was a pleasant smell from somewhere as of food cooking, but there’d been no mention of a feast after whatever this was, and no one dared presume they were invited to what was most likely Hastur’s dinner.

The whole thing was weird.

It was about to get weirder. The front of the classroom was empty. Then it was not.

There was no procession of Dancers. No servants swirling in half-naked, tossing flower petals hither and thither and yon. There was simply Hastur, with such suddenness that the air he displaced blasted back fur and ruffled clothes.

In his grip was Arthur. The court composer, standing there, dwarfed by the enormous hands on his shoulders, looking absolutely exhausted, afraid, pale, scrawny, weak—

All words they’d been taught to associate with him, as Hastur used them before every single one of Arthur’s performances. (Which were always excellent, which only made them confusing, but no one was going to argue, so—)

“It’s come to my attention that some of you have not, in fact, paid attention,” said Hastur, abandoning Arthur to walk slowly back and forth before the child-chairs, and though he didn’t actually reach out to touch anyone, his power buffeted, keeping fur back and capes slightly billowed.

Arthur shifted his weight, looked at nothing (he never looked at anything), and gripped his right hand with his left.

“This foul piece of flesh is my court composer. His name—when I care to use it—is Arthur.” Hastur reached the other side of the classroom, turned, and reversed his menacing stroll. “He belongs to me. I have chosen him; the reason, perhaps, does not matter now—though it was hardly for any praiseworthy thing he did.” Hastur chuckled.

That wasn’t funny, but he got a few toadying laughs.

“It was to my surprise that he had any talent, nay, even one that could bless my court with a thing of need: music. And it is true. I will grant that. My jubilees are beautiful things, almost fitting accompaniment to the glory of my kingdom.”

The weird spirit-thing in Arthur made a very quiet snore.

That had to be an accident.

Nobody knew what that thing was, anyway. Heavily warded, hidden from sight, it evidently spoke to Arthur (everyone had heard him talking to it), but Hastur never mentioned it at all, so it must be beneath notice—and surely it wouldn’t have actually made a rude noise.

Arthur’s lips twitched.

Hastur went still for only a moment, then resumed his terrible gallows walk. No lightning struck, so clearly, it had been an accident.

“Nevertheless, what do I hear? What do I learn, as I come home to my city, to my people, to the empire in whose very veins my permission to live flows like blood and wine? I come home… to learn about plots.”

Ah. Well, yes. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who had been making plans to use Arthur in some way to curry favor. And until Pers showed up and paid the price, it had seemed a perfectly reasonable course of action.

Hastur stopped behind Arthur, dwarfing him. Broader, taller, his every exhalation more powerful than the entirety of Arthur’s life, he stood behind his musician, grabbed his wrists in two thick tentacles, and angrily stretched him out as far as he would go.

Arthur cried out. But he did not struggle. His head stayed down. He trembled.

“Do you see this?” said Hastur, dripping contempt with every syllable. Another tentacle emerged from his cloak to touch under Arthur’s chin, forcing him to lift his face. “Do. You. See. This.” And anger now trembled under the floor like a passing train, made the child-chairs rattle in place, made the glass in the windows creak. “This. Is. Mine.”

On that final word, three of the sconces blew off the wall; most attendees jumped. A few cried out.

“And,” said Hastur, “if anyone is going to rip this creature limb from limb—if anyone is going to tear his skin to shreds, or keep him alive as his bloodied screams light the night, or spread his guts around my home like festive garlands, that someone will be me.”

There was a noise from the thing in Arthur’s head. The mystery-spirit, perhaps in pain because Arthur was.

Hastur was bellowing now, paining eardrums, rippling flesh with the force of his anger. “Do we all understand?”

Arthur’s head was down again, and his every breath was shuddering terror, rapid anticipation of whatever was to come.

And no one expected what was to come (even with that outfit), because it was obvious Hastur hated this guy, and the last thing anyone would want to do with someone they hated was—

Hastur turned Arthur to face him, gripped his neck to stretch his head and arch his back, and plunged a tentacle right into his chest.

John knew pain.

He had experienced pain in death and pain in tearing. Pain in flesh—Arthur had bitten the tip of their pinky finger off John’s hand. John had felt every shredded nerve as the red-hot metal of Arthur’s belt buckle seared the bleeding. He knew the pain of the soul, too, the anguish of loss as Arthur, was broken before his eyes.

This was entirely different.

This was every sensation coming to screaming life and crackling through him like lightning, every sensation fighting for dominance as he was pinned like an insect being mounted for display.

And in that moment of the perfect agony he and Arthur shared, John pinpointed that tangled weave where he and Arthur blurred together inside him.

Something wasn’t right.

Vaguely, he could hear Hastur bellow, the words becoming meaning in the space they shared.

I command you

Yes…

I take your name

Yes!

I burn myself into your soul

He thought, for a brief moment, of how lovely a sound Arthur’s name was.

And John reacted, screaming from effort, singing words he did not know he still knew, rippling with meaning and intent and power, resonating with Hastur (all that John was and all that he would someday be), and sharing this terrible, violational spell.

But John… made it beautiful.

“Y' ymg' ulnah!” Hastur roared, vowing, bespelling, loathing every syllable that exited his throat. “Y' ymg' mggoka yaah! Y' fm'latgh ymg' orr'e!”

And Arthur’s soul (that hideous substance) did what it was supposed to, and began to conform to Hastur’s intrusion.

But something wasn’t right.

Something was—

“Ph'nglui n'gha!” Echoing?

In death!

“Ph'nglui lw'nafh!” Reflecting?

In life!

“Syha'h ymg' ah ya yaor!” He was not speaking these words alone.

Always…

The power was weird, filling the cavern of untapped potential in this disgusting man.

(Hastur was panicking.)

“Syha'h ymg' ah ya yaori!” Three times, he had to say it three times.

Always you are—

Hastur felt…

(Hastur was afraid.)

Hastur was…

John was…

“Syha'h ymg' ah ya yaor!”

Always, you are my own!

(Hastur was whole.)

(John was whole.)

He looked with Hastur’s eyes upon Arthur’s face, his lovely Arthur, covered with scars of their shared experiences, and in the eternity of that moment memorized every line worn into his skin, every lash that framed his sightless eyes, and felt that heart—so fragile, yet so strong—beat within their chest.

He wanted to tell him… Everything.

Instead, he spoke, voice low and heavy with so many unsaid words.

“Mine.”

And John fell back into Arthur’s head, spinning as if to never find ground.

Hastur was done.

It was finished.

He pulled his arm out of Arthur in a spray of hideous blood and gore—leaving Arthur’s chest without injury at all, what a magic trick, huzzah.

It had all gone right. He felt the things he’d expected to feel—a knee-jerk closeness to the one he’d marked, an affection born of lies, which would pass in a few hours. But that was not all.

Not all, at all.

He’d felt whole.

For a moment, just a moment, dual-casting a thing that could not be dual-cast, he’d been whole again, and relief from the pain (constant, aching, burning) of fragmentation was so strong that he—

Hastur discovered that if he spoke right now, he might sob.

It had felt so—

It had felt.

He made a noise. One low, small one, fighting the urge to wrap Arthur up in his limbs like Faroe, fighting the urge to squeeze him like jelly in desperation to get John back, fighting all the urges because none of them were sane and he’d known they wouldn’t be and that was fine this was fine it would all be okay.

Loss. Because he’d been whole. For one magnificent instant.

And then, he became aware his couriers were murmuring.

“How? How did he—”

“He must have really meant those warnings.”

“But I didn’t know he could—”

“Why didn’t he do that, then, to someone he liked, like—”

Hastur was on the edge of… everything. Arousal. Grief. Sorrow. Anger. Possessiveness. Pain.

How dare Arthur have somehow made him feel whole, only to take it away? How dare he? Hastur should smash him for this. Break both his legs. Crush his ribs.

But the thought of harming Arthur sent a pang of horror straight through his own echoing soul—sore now, as if it had been stretched, extended, overused.

Tomorrow. He could be reasonable about hurting Arthur tomorrow. He had to handle his courtiers now. “Do we have an understanding?” he said, aiming for intimidation.

Well, that hadn’t worked. It came out smooth. Chocolatey, pleased. Relaxed. Which was normal for after a marking, but he didn’t want it to be.

What the fuck were they all talking about, anyway? They’d all seen this before. It was just a—

Hastur peered.

Hastur lifted Arthur’s limp form, stained now with blood from a vanished wound, and peered more closely.

There were two marks on his soul.

John did not have lungs to be panting like this, but he was doing it anyway.

He also did not have eyes, but he knew what burned before him—brilliant, orange, like filaments in an overheated bulb.

Hastur’s mark, yes, but no: this was the King in Yellow’s mark.

And John recalled his own words, long ago, still true: I am the King in Yellow.

Two. Two marks, identical, just slightly offset so as to be discrete. This was not a possible thing. This could not happen. This had never happened in the history of anything. This—

(He’d been whole.)

That was John’s mark on there. Arthur had not been taken from him.

(He had. Been. Whole.)

John had marked Arthur, somehow, at the same time as Hastur. Maybe how didn’t matter. Maybe it was a gift. Maybe Shub-Niggurath had—

No. This was not anyone’s gift but his own.

John sobbed. He couldn’t stop.

(He’d been whole.)

Arthur was his, for true, for life, even after death.

(He’d been, he’d felt, he had been whole and—)

He would never lose him now. Not even the Dark World could prevent John from finding him.

It was a gift. It was a blessing. It was…

It was because I am the King in Yellow, he thought, which (whole whole he had been whole) hurts in some indefinable way, because how many years had he spent distancing himself from this, and no, he hadn’t thought he was human, but his essence truly hadn’t changed, he was what he was, he was a god, he hadn’t lost it all, he hadn’t lost everything in his nature or his power or his mind, he—

He had been whole with Hastur for one wild, beautiful moment, and while having Arthur for good felt better, that had been…

John would not allow himself to say right.

He would never join Hastur again. No matter how it had felt. But it…

It had been beautiful, in that moment.

John wasn’t sobbing only with relief. There was loss, too.

It could be both. It was both.

He still controlled Arthur’s left hand, and reached up to hug the limp mans’ body, clutching, tight.

Being whole had felt so good.

John was afraid.

Arthur Lester had a very different experience from the gods in the room.

He was used to Hastur’s nonsense by now. That did not, of course, mean it didn’t still hurt.

He’d never minded being looked at; musicians required an audience, and being a P.I. meant getting talked to and stared at and perused all the time.

He hated the humiliation. Hated the insults. The constant barrage of worthless and gross and viscerally disgusting.

Hated that Hastur’s lickspittles accepted it without question, adopting his attitude to the point that they never even knew what to do when he gave them beautiful sounds.

(And he did give them beautiful sounds, damn it. His music was flowing better than it ever had in his life, and he didn’t know why; maybe because he had so little ego left to get in the way.)

(Maybe that was the key to art, after all: crack open until you can bleed on the page, then burn your self down.)

These were dark thoughts. Arthur felt dark. Everyone was staring, smug, so superior.

He hadn’t expected to be manhandled. He hadn’t expected it to hurt before it was going to hurt.

He didn’t want to be hurt. He didn’t want to be stabbed. He didn't want—

The first second of impalement felt like a punch, then nothing.

Then everything, and it was horror.

It was worse than getting knifed by Kellan.

It was worse than getting shot.

It was worse than the frog-thing that chewed into his gut underneath that island, trying to suck out his blood.

It was worse than anything, ever, and he could not breathe.

John! he cried inside, aware he was choking blood, unable to gasp around the shape in his chest. John, I’m afraid, I—

And Hastur began to shout.

Arthur knew nothing of R'Lyehian other than the rhythms Hastur demanded in his music. Arthur couldn’t speak it. Couldn’t understand it. But these shouts were different from the self-praise Hastur regularly made him put to song.

This was…

Meaning.

Arthur got the strangest image—of Hastur reaching into a barrel of water and closing his hand around a grape.

And then it wasn’t hurting anymore.

It was still too much. Far too much, and getting mucher, but it wasn’t pain the way he’d known. Not burning, not stretching, not tearing, but somehow all of those and not, and each word Hastur shouted was being—

Echoed?

John.

John was shouting, too.

Had that been part of the program? Had he always been going to—

It became more than much. It became muchest, and then it got even worse.

Filled his veins and jangled his nerves, sizzled every branch of every biological system in his body, but only on the way to something else, because this was touching a part of him he’d spent most of his life believing didn’t even exist.

Hastur was there, too, yes, yes.

John was there. Yes. Yes!

It was still getting mucher, too much, over the top. Overstimulation, he thought, dredging the word from some crooked case-file, but that was all he could do. It felt like there was a fist in his mind, expanding, maybe damaging, maybe crushing, maybe—

John was… singing?

Singing the words?

Arthur’s thoughts spiraled. Oh, of course, his soul was a harp string, and they both plucked a tune.

That made sense, and he visualized that, the vibrations too fast to see, the resonance tickling strings nearby to create overtones and harmony, the—

Something was happening.

It was sight. He would never have sight. It was better than sight.

John.

Behind John, Hastur, like a ballooned-up version of his friend, his person, his—

John, and then Hastur, and they were the same, the same being, the same thing, or kind of thing, or—

John.

Hastur didn’t matter.

(Hastur was inside.)

Hastur didn’t matter.

John.

It wasn’t sight, but it was; John, golden—all ablaze, a smile of terrifying heat turned upon him as he sang the terrible words.

(Forever and my own slipped through, and Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d made that up or not.)

Sight that made John blaze like the sun and dimmed all the rest (and Hastur was there, too), and Arthur raised his face toward that sun like a flower come to bloom.

It wasn’t hurting.

It was hurting.

It was the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life.

It was the best pain, the best thing, the most marvelous too much, and he wanted to scream all the way through until it killed him dead with the ecstasy and agony of vibrating strings.

He caught a thought that he was lit up like a filament in a light bulb, which wasn’t his thought, but John's, and wasn’t that wonderful?

Mine they said, they promised, they sang, and he heard them.

“John!” Arthur said-cried-screamed-sighed, and then he crested that hill, fell over that edge, tipped backward and upside down and fell into the sky toward John (and Hastur was there, too) and then, in mercy, he finally passed out.

“Get out.” Hastur knew that wasn’t strong enough, and he had to play it up as if that were on purpose. “Or do I need to actually act out my ire on anyone I suspect of treason?”

Thank fuck that got them moving. They all stared at Arthur a moment more (and he couldn’t blame them; this was a situation), and then left—bowing, praising Hastur, proclaiming loudly to one another how clever he was. All things he normally enjoyed at the end of performances like this.

Hastur could barely stand, but he managed. Willpower and thousands of years of practice, wielded like a pro, kept him upright: he waited, and stood, until the last monster left, until the classroom door was closed.

Then Hastur locked it with magic, sealing it right the fuck up, and sat down hard.

He’d picked Arthur up at some point. Hadn’t remembered doing that. Didn’t really want to keep holding the man, but… fuck. Arthur was a mess. Maybe they hadn’t waited long enough before doing this?

Arthur had bled more than he was supposed to, and choked on some of it, too, so it was all down his front and all over his face and ugh. Could he be more gross?

(Beautiful.)

No. This was gross. That was the mark talking.

Hastur knew how to mitigate that until those feelings went away. He had bigger fish to fry. John was… crying?

Son of a bitch. “What. Did you. Do.” (Now that was a snarl.)

John stopped his bullshit long enough to reply. He’s mine. You can’t take him from me now.

“I asked you a question, Piece. What did you do?”

Fuck if I know. Aren’t you the god of this place? You tell me.

Hastur growled.

John hissed like a lizard.

Neither of those sounds were… meant.

I miss you is what Hastur would say, if he were some weak, pathetic thing, mortal, or young, or in any way silly and vulnerable and stupid. Happily, the Piece was just as proud, and so there would be no—

Fuck. I miss you. All right? I miss you. I felt it, too. Fuck you, go to hell, I miss… I miss you. But I’m never coming back.

He wasn’t supposed to say it. “Piece,” Hastur warned.

I felt it. That’s all. I’m saying it so you don’t have to, you arrogant chunk of a worm’s backside.

Hastur sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Piece. This is not—“

He’s mine, anyway. Mine. Pretty sure my mark is under yours, closer to him. To his. To. A pause. What was I saying?

And it occurred to Hastur right about then that all that power had been enough to knock him on his ass… and the Piece was, ah. Less than that.

“Well,” said Hastur. “You are magic-drunk. I wonder what we should do with you in this state.”

Nothing, the piece groused, and Arthur’s left hand rose and began petting his hair.

It was a sloppy motion. Clumsily affectionate.

Hastur laughed at him.

Shut up. Mine.

“I should really take advantage of this,” said Hastur (who had not put Arthur down, but it meant nothing, it was just the damned mark doing its thing, and it would bloody well pass).

No, you should go away and let me take advantage of him. And John proceeded to crack up. See what I … hahaha! I made a dirty joke! Hahaha! Arthur could put it in a song and make everybody happy! Hahaha!

Hastur stared. “What are you talking about?”

John continued giggling, repeating his bizarre quip.

Right. “We are finished here. The Mother will be satisfied. Her damned goat baby can see this and verify I did my duty. We’re done.”

I’ll do her duty, said John.

“That made no sense, Piece.”

I know! Wait, what?

Hastur sighed. Stood.

Wobbled. And to wobble with as many tentacles as he had for balance was… a feat.

Whatever this was, it had departed from marking into new and strange territory. He’d have to study it. There could be new magic here. Something more he could utilize to… to…

He had no idea what he’d do with magic like this. It didn’t seem to have a purpose. It was just… an accident.

Poor baby Arthur, John said, pushing one finger into his soft cheek. Too skinny. Must feed.

“John, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

You’re embarrassing yourself.

“Right.” Deeply grateful he could use portals and did not have to walk through the halls in this condition, Hastur stepped through to Arthur’s room.

It was blessedly cool in there, a breeze from the window licking the sweat from Arthur’s skin, the sheen from Hastur’s hide. He stood in front of the balcony, waiting for sanity to return along with regulated temperature.

By rights, he should drop Arthur onto the floor and leave.

Hey, said John. Do you think if we got a pony and we fell down, you’d feel the bruise?

“What?” said Hastur. “What are you… you’re still inebriated.”

Haha! Uh. Maybe? I don’t know.

(Hastur wanted to hold Arthur.)

(Hastur wanted to take care of Arthur.)

(Hastur wanted to clean him up and tuck him into bed and make him eat some porridge, or whatever he was supposed to be eating, and stay there and be there when he woke.)

Right. None of that. He’d be sane by morning.

The euphoria wasn’t enough to erase the ache, anyway. He’d been whole.

Hastur walked out onto Arthur’s balcony and stared down at the garden.

He was right; it did have less color than it had when he was whole.

He was right; it did smell less lovely than it had when he was whole.

He had been right; right to tear through the worlds trying to find a solution. Right to torture beings who kept potential leads from him. Right to do everything in his power to force the Piece out of fucking Arthur Lester and back into him.

He’d been right. And in the midst of all this mayhem, he’d forgotten that was the entire reason any of this was happening at all.

“Tomorrow, Piece,” Hastur said slowly. “Tomorrow, we need to talk.”

You need to talk.

“Yes, I—that didn’t even make any sense.”

John sounded deeply pleased with himself. You don’t make any sense.

Hastur sighed. “Good luck cleaning him up in the morning. I’m sure he’ll thank you for waking up in this mess.” Such a mess. Bodily fluids everywhere. Just… ugh.

You’re a… what… oh, hi! Like he’d forgotten Hastur was there. Hey. Put us in the bath.

“He will drown because he is unconscious and you are an idiot.”

No he won’t. I’ve got him.

“I’m sure. While that would be a deeply amusing way to solve my conundrum, I can’t risk it. Faroe—”

Don’t you fucking use that name right now!

Hastur sighed and rubbed his forehead again. “She isn’t your enemy.”

Like hell! She… she hurt him. She could hurt him again!

“She’s healing him, you moron.”

For whatever reason, that landed. John went quiet.

Arthur’s breathing was deep and steady.

“You really want him in the bath?”

Sullen: Yes.

“Fine. On your head be it. Hardly my fault if you murder your idiot mule.” But he was more gentle than he’d admit as he carried Arthur in there and ran the water.

The affection would pass.

The grief would not.

The fondness would pass.

The pain would not.

He’d lost sight, in the middle of everything, of what mattered. Though he didn’t regret Faroe. He would never regret her; by the gods, by the time he was done, she would be…

She would make every other goddess in all the worlds jealous.

But he had lost sight of his purpose.

He peered down.

Arthur looked… good. Happy. He’d lost that pinched expression that twisted his face even when sleeping. Blood was still everywhere, though. “Good luck with this mess.”

Oh, he’ll wake up soon, said John happily. I need him to play for me. Play those happy drunk songs.

Hastur had no idea what he was talking about. “John. He’s just been marked. He’s going to sleep for a day and a half, probably.”

Nooooo… John’s left arm splashed the water, petulant.

Hastur sighed. “You don’t even—”

“What happened?” said Arthur, and Hastur jumped.

Arthur! Arthur, Arthur, Arthur… Hey! Arthur, Arthur, Arthur—

“Hmmm?” said Arthur. Then he fell asleep again.

That should… not have happened.

But he’d done that in The Wood, too, hadn’t he? Woken up when the Great Mother herself had put him under. He had.

“What the fuck are you?” Hastur wondered, finally wondered, finally fucking admitted out loud.

Because it was so much easier to just lump him into the worst of humanity, to see him like some horrible drug, something that addicted the Piece, destroying him even as it sucked him further in. But perhaps…

Perhaps ignoring the possibility of more had done more harm than good. Perhaps, if he did not finally get to the bottom of what the fuck Arthur Lester had going on, he was never going to get the Piece to come home.

(And had to find out if whatever it was was in Faroe. And if it would harm her.)

Nooooo… John protested as Hastur gave Arthur the quickest bath of his life.

“I’m not leaving you here. He’s going to drown, or wake up in icy cold water and get fucking pneumonia.”

But I wanted to… I… uh.

“What, Piece?”

There is a bizarre blank moment. I don’t remember.

“Exactly.”

He tried to toss Arthur onto the bed.

He laid him down instead, and tucked him in, to boot. Then sighed at himself.

“Piece,” said Hastur. “I don’t know what happened tonight. You may not even remember this, but out of respect for what you are—truly what you are, not this pantomime you’ve created—I will warn you: it is time we got to the bottom of what this human is. And when we have done that, you are going to come home.”

John didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to have registered anything Hastur said. He was busy playing with Arthur’s lips, one finger sort of batting them up and down, amused at their elasticity.

Hastur shook his head. “Tomorrow, it changes. We’re done with this game. Goodnight.” He turned. Stopped. And facing the garden, facing the sky, facing the edge of the world, too quiet, he said, “I miss you, too.” And he left.

Arthur stirred. “Stobbit,” he said, pushing John’s hand from his face, and then fell under again.

Mine, said John, who could not sleep, but felt like he might fall into some kind of doze, anyway. It’s good now. It’s safe. I’ll keep you safe. Um. Like a… what’s a hidden gun called? Is there a word for that?

Arthur just breathed. It was good breathing, though. Deep. Steady.

John hugged him tight. Let’s do this again sometime, he said, and fell into a sweetly thoughtless daze.

Arthur slept well, without bad dreams. Instead, he dreamed of light bulb souls, and John-shaped suns, and flying through the stars. And all night long, Faroe’s smile guided him home.

-----------

NOTES

The music Arthur played to Robert Frost’s Reluctance was something similar to this.

Schumann’s Träumerei.

Liszt’s Consolation no. 3.

#malevolent #malevolent fic #malevolent podcast #malevolent fanfic #kiy malevolent #king hastur #john malevolent #arthur lester #surrogate series

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pansexualkiba · 11 months

Text

"Midoriya!" Kaminari exclaimed, rushing around the corner and pulling Midoriya away from the Mona Lisa, "Thank god we found you." He panted, then implored, "We need your help."

"Jesus Christ, are you serious?! Again?!" Midoriya exclaimed, "Are we really doing this again?!"

"Doing what?" Bakugou asked, "We haven't even said what this is about."

Midoriya smacked his lips. "Okay, let me guess. You are here because you need me to be a member of some sort of squad that you have formed for some random competition in which you are going up against another group of teens who are remarkably similar to you in both number and personality," Midoriya took a deep breath, "And in which my robotic arm will play some sort of pivotal role in our victory, yes?" He summarized the past year or so at U.A. High.

Kaminari and Bakugou exchanged looks, and Kaminari squeaked out, "Nnno… That's, not what we were gonna ask."

"Well then, by all means, Denki, what is it you needed my help with?"

Kaminari hesitated, then slowly said, as if embarrassed, "We need you to… Join our modeling team for the L'Oreal International Junior Modeling Tournament so that we can beat the French squad that have vowed to destroy us."

"For the love of God, Kaminari!" Midoriya groaned, "You realize we do this every few months, right?! I mean, get a new fucking gimmick, dude!"

"Oh, whatever the fuck, Midoriya!" Kaminari screamed, "Do we need to sit here and argue for the next eight minutes, or can we just agree that you're gonna join the squad for some perverse food request and/or random pooping privilege?"

Midoriya thought it over. "Yeah, yeah, we can work the details out later." He agreed, calmly walking over to join Kaminari. "I'm in."

"Great." Kaminari nodded as Bakugou left to approach the Mona Lisa.

"You know me." Midoriya smiled.

Bakugou approached Aoyama, who was admiring the Mona Lisa. "Hey, Aoyama~"

"Hello, Katsuki." Aoyama said, surprised to see his self-proclaimed best friend at the Louvre.

"Sooooo, have you gone to visit your parents yet?" Bakugou asked conversatorily, "I'd love to meet them! In fact, I'd love to see where you were born." Bakugou stepped forwards a little. "While we're at it, you have your passport on you? I'd love to see it."

"I am sorry, Katsuki," Aoyama apologized, "I left my passport at the, how do you say, hotel."

"Oh." Katsuki nodded. "How fucking convenient, Aoyama."

"Er, Katsuki?" Aoyama spoke up, wheeling out his baby from the crowd, "I'm actually trying not to curse in front of baby Katsuki, so if you could not, uhhhh-"

"Oh, I completely understand!" Bakugou exclaimed, "What words are you trying to avoid? Is it things like hell, damn, fuck, shit, bitch, cunt, ass, cock, dick, cockface, dickface, dickhead, dickwad, cocksmoker, cocksucker?"

Bakugou put a hand to his chin in thought. "What about words like tits, pussy, twat, snatch, clitface, cuntface, thundercunt, dipshit, douchebag, dumbass, dumbfuck, or dipshit?"

"I'm sure you're trying to avoid words like-" Bakugou leaned down to speak directly into baby Katsuki's face. "Bullshit, bastard, bitchtits, buttfucker, asshole, ass-hat, assclown, asswipe," Bakugou stood up straight again, "Jackass, shithead, shitface, and whore, right?"

"Are we counting words like piss, cum, cum-dumpster, and cum-guzzler?" Bakugou asked casually, attracting the attention of a pair of tourists.

"Uh-"

"Oh, goddamnit!" Bakugou fake-gasped, "I almost forgot fucker, fuckface, fuckstick, fuckwad, fuckboy, clusterfuck, and of course, motherfucker." Bakugou smiled like a feral chimpanzee as the tourists rushed away, scandalized. "Are these all the kind of words you're avoiding, Aoyama Yuuga?"

Aoyama slowly unfroze. "Uh, yes, I guess any of those, we are, uh, trying to stay away from."

"Okay, well, good luck with that," Bakugou shrugged before walking off to rejoin Kaminari and Midoriya.

#mha #bnha #mpgis #Denki Kaminari #Izuku Midoriya #Katsuki Bakugou #Yuga Aoyama

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majorgarrett93 · 11 months

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Vengeance of Mr. Gray

Tim Gray: forties, successful businessman, loyal to the company he works for, more than enough money, lives in an expensive apartment in the city, recently engaged. Everything is going perfect until one day he hears from his boss Kurt that the company's letting him go. Everything would go to hell, for Kurt though and not Tim. Problem with Kurt is that he avoids conflict and lets people walk over him, so he had an extremely hard time letting Tim go. Threatens how he's going to tear his life apart and the threats get more severe before he takes off. He goes home to his fiancé Valerie, doesn't tell her that he got axed, had a reservation for a nice restaurant.

It was late Friday night around midnight and cops showed up to their doorstep. "Timothy Gray, you're being legally detained for making a death threat!" He starts acting erratic as one officer replies, "going to have to ask you to put your hands behind your back and stop reaching for your pocket, now sir!' Which he was rather incompliant.

Valerie shows up suddenly demanding that they let him go. Tell her to go back inside but she steps out further, getting into a verbal argument and suddenly shouting, "GET THE HELL OFF MY PROPERTY, COCKSUCKER NAZIS!", Kicking an officer right where it hurts. Tim fled but surrendered once surrounded, both spent the night in the slammer. Val, for assault and Tim for death threats and fleeing.

Val had a good attorney; Tim would represent himself in court as well as his side of the story which was convincing at first... First just mentions what happened, losing his job and everything. Then begins going on with his life story and how it was his and Val's anniversary, one year they were celebrating and to have her in tears about losing his job and everything was a soul-crushing experience that no one could imagine.

He keeps changing the story, gets a little out of control until the judge has to slam his gavel down, "Mr. Timothy Gray! Did you make those threats to your former boss or not? Do you plead guilty or not guilty?", "Not guilty your honor. Damn right I said what I said to that bastard!"

Tim got some time in the county jail and walked off commenting how jail is lucky and undeserving of his presence and if the shit-stains, scum off the street he shares a cell with are people then that means he’s God.

Decided to hire a good attorney for his next court date. He was released with only a restraining order from Kurt and anywhere within fifty feet of his property. Val was let out, got a fine and her charge of misdemeanor was reduced. It was late night, 11pm when Tim was released from the county jail and hit a bar downtown, while drinking fantasizing and getting ideas how he could make Kurt suffer so much that the only mercy he'll find is when he dies and reaches the burning inferno, what he could do with getting the shortest sentence in jail.

Val was spending the night in a hotel that night drinking Dom Perigone to recover from the trauma which Tim sees the text on his phone, planning on heading over after his last drink until he runs into his old friend Rick. Tim and Rick were best friends in high school as well as years after until he met his wife Angela who would spend all of his hard-earned money and never let him order more than one drink when they went out to a restaurant or bar. They both went their separate ways until running into each other for the first time in twenty years. Get into conversation, Tim asking Rick "No longer Angela's bitch?" He laughed and replied, "Unfortunately, no." He knew that a divorce wouldn't work, court would all be in Angela's favor, and she'd get to keep the house as well as everything they own. He then gets an idea of the perfect plan, "You want your boss to suffer, how about we can swap favors? Take care of each other's problem in their life?"

Both too drunk to drive, so they walk to the hotel while coming up with the perfect plan. Tim notices all the homeless smoking foil on the streets, places his hand in his pocket and shouts "hey Ricky! Watch the roaches scatter!", while throwing a handful of change all over. Thought it was funny and starts remembering the times he used to give junkies Monopoly money and they were so high that they tried to spend it, then he comes up with a good idea to the plan, "Lets hire the homeless to threaten your boss. Cheaper than a pro, do anything for some dope and it's not like a hitman, we're not going to kill him. Just scare the hell out of him at first. Who'll know we were behind it?"

He agrees on it, Rick said he'll take care of the money and everything as long as if he takes care of his problem, hesitant at first but he agreed upon the deal. Rick studied forensics in school so he knew what not to do that could leave evidence behind. Found a couple hardcore junkies and offered them a couple hundred upfront and even more after their task he assigned them to: break into Kurt's house in the middle of the night, threaten and assault, then leave and where to hide so cops don't find them, had it all planned out. He was telling Tim a little of his past and last holiday season, having to spend it with Angela and her family, stating that it made Nikki Sixx's Heroin Diaries look like Dr. Seuss. "Now I understand why suicide rates go up this time of year." It had been a few days; Tim found a part-time job to get by. One evening cops show up on his doorstep which he is detained and taken in for questioning. Spends one night as they believe he's behind the attack of his former boss yet there was no direct evidence. He sat in his cell loving that he made Kurt suffer, put in the hospital and terrify his wife and children. Up all night unable to sleep in his cell, reading James Patterson and visualizing what happened to his boss. Val posted bail for him and there was no evidence at the time that either him or Rick were behind it, ruled out to be a burglary/home invasion only.

Later out for dinner that night, went to the Red Robin which was packed but Angela insisted. Rick suggested that they sit in the bar which had plenty of open seating, but she demanded they get a booth to sit at, "bars are full of drunken whores, all you care about; drinking, cheap whores and watching sports!" She shouts, so they waited for two hours. Tim gets to witness his best friend's perfect life in front of him. If it wasn't her bitchin' non-stop, it was all the screaming children in the restaurant.

Angela got up to use the bathroom, waiter showed up asking if they'd like anything else. Tim had an extra beer; Val had a vodka on the rocks...Rick went for a quadruple whisky on the rocks and finished it quick. Angela is back which Rick especially but Tim, Val and everyone in the restaurant were verbally assaulted, even the screaming children were scattered in the corner terrified and covering their ears.

She stormed into the room and shouts, "You ordered another drink?", "Damn right bitch! It's my money, in fact I ordered four while you were gone!" All hell breaks loose, manager shows up telling them that if they aren't out within thirty seconds, he's calling the cops. Tim felt less hesitant towards doing his end of the job after that night, doesn't tell Rick to have a good night, just says "I'd be honored." Had been a couple weeks, gets a call from Rick mentioning how he's been watching Kurt a lot lately, done a few extra things to tear him apart, things going south and his relationship with his wife is falling apart. Mentions how he'll be gone on vacation soon, already has a new plan and apologizes for the incident with Angela that became a viral video on TikTok, "don't be shocked if cops show up at your house again." Weeks later was detained at the "revolving door" after his boss’ home was broken into and robbed within a short distance of time of the last incident. Was found dead in his home later, shot in the head but was ruled out to be a suicide. Tim is released and gets more info on what happened to his house while on vacation. House was broken into, now makes a boarded up meth house look like a five star suite, cars in garage completely totaled, all windows in house broken, holes in walls, carpet all soiled, traces of urine throughout, paraphernalia as well as traces of various illicit substances, graffiti, empty bottles of liquor, multiple stolen goods, broken TV as well as a collage on the table made of pics from pornographic magazines...and it wasn't glue they used to make them stick. Rick was out of town, Angela was alone, it was now Tim's turn, time to do his favor and take care of her. He pulled it off quick but not thorough, used an old shotgun that was given to him by his grandfather. When returning home, he found his problem was a little more than "taken care of". He would report to police, but his shock was somewhat real that made it believable, he expected an execution, not a bloodbath and brains on the carpet.

He was taken in and questioned by authority about the last time he saw his wife and start laughing but quickly stop and apologize after questioning if it was after the Red Robin incident? There was no evidence on either Tim or Rick, the couple people they caught breaking into Kurt's house couldn't identify a real hundred from a Monopoly hundred. Police department were pissed that they couldn't get Tim behind bars, murder of Angela was taken as a joke due to the viral video, even people openly joked about not getting on Rick's bad side. After months of investigation, police department got desperate, so they tried to find any reason to arrest either. They finally caught Tim, arrested for drunk and disorderly behavior, repeat offense and he would be in jail for a long time; 364 days was the max sentence they could prosecute him with.

Tim sat in his cell, waiting for his release date, knew he’d be out within only weeks. Proud that he drove his boss to ending his life. He didn’t hold grudges, believed in forgiveness and was even with the man that wronged him.

#Crime #Dark Comedy #murder #short story #entitled people #karens #revenge #vengeance #psychopaths #narcissistic personality disorder #sociopath #white collar crime

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bettercallwillow · 2 years

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perfect little cocksucker ; bruce wayne

summary: bruce returns from a night of 'work' in a shit mood because one of his enemies got away, so you let him take out his stress on you.

warnings: established d/s relationship, dom!bruce, sir kink, oral (m receiving), face fucking, degrading, praise, dacryphilia, aftercare, everything is consensual, they have a safe word

✩.･*:｡≻───── ⋆♡⋆ ─────.•*:｡✩

short n kinda bad but i saw the midnight showing of the batman the other day and robert pattinson's bruce qayne has been living in my head ever since i love him so much oh my god

✩.･*:｡≻───── ⋆♡⋆ ─────.•*:｡✩

Your eyelids grew heavier as the minutes went by, wanting nothing more than to hear the door open and your boyfriend to return. He had insisted that you not stay up for him, but you always worried yourself half to death when he went out.

You were waiting in the Drawing Room of the Wayne manor, warm and comfortable from the fireplace that was lit. He should be home any minute now, the sky outside had started to lighten as it was the early hours of the morning.

The sound of the front door slamming shut caught your attention, making you turn you head towards the entrance of the room you were in. Loud footsteps drew closer and soon enough, the oak door was pushed open quickly.

Bruce had changed out of his suit before coming back to the home, now wearing a black shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He looked angry, chest rising up and down in a steady pace and his eyes darting around the room-- looking for you.

"Bruce," you smiled, not yet catching on to his mood, "Missed you,"

"Not Bruce, is it?" he spoke sternly, slowly striding towards where you were sat on the couch. You understood quickly, now being able to see his furrowed brow and dark eyes in the orange glow of the fireplace.

"Sorry, sir," you muttered, standing up from the couch and standing a few inches away from him, looking up at him with doe-like eyes. The corners of his lips lifted into a small smile and he brought a hand up to your chin, holding tight.

"You're gonna be a good fucking whore and let me fuck that throat," he spat, letting go of your face and pushing down on one of your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. Your hands found their way behind you, holding on to another as you let your mouth open.

"Look how well I've trained you," he chuckled, pulling down his sweatpants so his erection sprang up, hitting his stomach with a soft slap. Your mouth watered at the sight of him and your hips squirmed slightly in an attempt to relieve the aching in your cunt.

Bruce spat on one of his hands, wrapping it around his shaft and pumping it a few times before guiding the tip to your mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed at the weight of his cock on your tongue, it was almost comforting-- until he bucked his hips forward roughly.

You gagged as he hit the back of your throat, trying your best not to choke as you breathed through your nose. He let out a moan as he saw tears well up in your eyes, "Stupid fucking slut, can't even take me without crying about it,"

His calloused hands found their way into your hair, holding onto it with a harsh grip as he moved his hips in a steady rhythm. You swallowed around him to avoid gagging again, a loud groan sounding from him in response.

"Made for this, aren't you?" he chuckled, looking down at you with an expression of pure lust, "Perfect little cocksucker," You hummed at the praise, sending vibrations down his length. Bruce's thighs started to shake as he came closer to his high, his thrusts slowing down slightly and becoming more sloppy.

"You gonna take it all, hm?" he hummed, his breathing slightly ragged, "Swallow like a good little slut?"

Trying your best to nod with his cock in your mouth, you blinked away your tears and relaxed your throat, getting ready to swallow his load. A loud moan left his lips as he came, the grip on your high getting tighter, pushing you down so your nose touched the patch of hair on his pubic bone.

The salty liquid ran down your throat, coating your tastebuds and leaving an imprint of his taste in your mouth. You swallowed when he pulled out, lolling out your tongue to show him that it was all gone. "Good girl," he smiled, kneeling down so he was eye-level with you.

"Thank you, sir," you chirped, sighing in content when his hand rested on the side of your face. Your eyes fluttered closed and you leaned into the touch, basking in the comfort of him holding you, "You did so well for me, baby," he muttered, placing a small kiss on the tip of your nose.

Bruce stood back up, pulling his sweatpants back into place before holding out a hand to help you stand, "You want me to run you a bath, sweetheart?" he asked, leaning down slightly to kiss you. You nodded, standing up and letting him carry to the nearest bathroom.

"Guessing you didn't catch any bad guys today," you spoke when he lay you down in the tub, the bubbles he had put in tickling at your chin. "Not tonight," he replied, picking up the shampoo bottle and putting some in his hands, "I'll get 'em next time, darling,"

He massaged the liquid into your scalp, making your eyes close at the comforting feeling, "Love ya," you hummed, pouting your lips for a kiss. "Love you too," he replied, moving his hands from your hair before giving you a short peck.

#bruce wayne #robert pattinson #batman #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne x you #the batman #the batman 2022 #battinson #bruce wayne x reader smut #batman smut

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wallflowerimagines · 3 years

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Hi! I looove your posts! Thank you so much for sharing your writing!

I was wondering… could you maybe write about the Four Lords with a shy S/O that gets bold and defensive when someone insults the lords? or calls them names? And the Lord’s reaction to the S/O acting different? Dk if im explaining myself >.<

Again! Love your work! Have a great day!

We stan protective partners on this blog!!

Warnings: uh...insults? They're pretty over the top😅 Also swearing.

Alcina Dimitrescu

Honestly, Alcina is more than able to defend herself.

She's got a tongue like a viper, and the thickest skin imaginable. If you really want to hurt her feelings, you have to be someone whom she already respects to a certain degree, or she won't even be phased.

Still, when she leaves a room, there's always some idiot that thinks it's a smart idea to talk shit.

Maybe it's a maid, maybe it's a guest in the Castle, but either way you're not having it.

"God, you're annoying." There was a pause before they opened their mouth again, and you rolled your eyes. "No please, by all means, continue to share your lack of taste with the rest of us."

You disassemble this dumbass, starting small with comments about their personality (trying to keep it classy), but escalating the more they choose to double down on the comments.

Alcina comes back into the room to find you practically screaming at this asshole.

"Look, all you have accomplished here today is revealing that you are a fundamental disappointment on every possible level. My life is worse now that I've heard you open your mouth, you disrespectful, shit licking worm fucker."

Alcina is stunned. You do not give off "aggressive guard dog" vibes at all, yet here you are defending her tooth and nail. While she had seen brief moments of your inner strength and protective streak (mostly towards her daughters) she just...never thought you would do the same for her.

It's not because she doesn't trust you or love you! But nobody has ever done something like this for her before? Ever? She's never had anyone try to protect her--not physically, and not even verbally. She's been so independent for so long that it's... Strange to see you support her so openly.

She doesn't need you to do this for her, she doesn't even expect it, but you do it anyway for no other reason than the fact that you love her. You want people to give her the respect she deserves.

I'm going to be real here: Alcina has never been closer to swooning before in her life. You're overcoming your shyness because you believe in her so much-- it's not a gesture meant to be romantic, but Alcina can't help but see this as a massive statement of your commitment to her.

Seriously. This is such a massive thing for her that if proposals weren't already on her mind, she is mentally picking out a ring for you the minute this happens.

Then, of course, she glides into the room, kisses you until you're breathless and babbling, and smirks at the unfortunate peon who thought they could get away with insulting House Dimitrescu.

She's in such a good mood that she's considering going easy on the idiot. Maybe removing their tongue would be enough of a warning?

Donna Dimitrescu

You don't really know how it's possible but apparently some people don't like Donna Beneviento? Some people think she's scary and unpleasant????

Wild. Can't imagine what that's like.

The two of you are honestly the sweetest, most toothrottingly adorable couple-- blushing when you hold each other's hands, sneaking glances at each other across rooms, giving each other kisses and forgetting whatever was on your mind...

Honestly, anybody who's critical of your relationship with your girlfriend is just a hater. Fuckers can pound sand😤

Still, you are pretty shy, so it takes a lot for you to defend yourself if someone comments about you. It can take a lot of courage to stand up against rude remarks, and sometimes it's easier to walk away.

Defending Donna, on the other hand?

The minute someone even thinks about dismissing her, you are ready to throw hands.

"My lovely girlfriend already said no, meaning you're either deaf or too stupid to pick up on simple social cues," you purse your lips and give the rude and pushy Villager a patronizing once over. "You and your opinion are equally useless. Get the fuck away from us."

Donna blinks.

She... Was not expecting this??? At all?? You're so nice! You always tell her about your attempts to avoid confrontation! What's going on??? How did you get the guts to say what she's always wanted to say?

Meanwhile, Angie is LIVING.

The little doll chimes in to assist you with the verbal homicide, working as a tag team to absolutely murder this moron. She's half partner, half hype man, and is so excited to do this with you. Normally, she has to protect Donna all by herself, but she's relieved and reassured that you stepped in first.

'USELESS IS TOO NICE, THOUGH! THAT IMPLIES THEY AREN'T A POINTLESS, RANCID, LONELY FREAK. THEY LOOK LIKE THEY CRY WHEN THEY MASTURBATE.'

You high five Angie, still glaring daggers at the unfortunate villager.

The two of you continue to ream into the villager, while Donna hovers nearby.

As surprised as she is, she's also grateful. She's only really ever had Angie to help shield her from insults and disrespect (and occasionally inducing horrifying hallucinations that make people claw off their own skin), but having you in her corner makes her feel safe.

Not to get totally sappy, but you're like her knight in shining armor in a lot of ways. And the fact you two are so similar is really motivating-- She wants to one day be confident enough to return the favor. Until then, she's happy to watch her two favorite people have fun insulting some stranger ❤️

Salvatore Moreau

With you being so shy, Salvatore is surprised how often he takes the lead in your relationship.

He's not normally all that outgoing, but you seem to bring out a side of him that's very protective. Whenever you have a bad day he wants to bundle you up and keep you safe from the world.

If he so much as holds your hand you start stuttering and avert your gaze. It creates a feedback loop where you both get flustered, but Moreau has never felt steadier. Despite your shyness, you make sure he knows how much you love him.

You're sweet as pie and twice as kind--Salvatore is the luckiest man in the world, nobody can convince him otherwise 💕💕

So it comes as a total shock that when a passing fisherman spits in your path and calls him a freak, your entire demeanor does a 180.

Your posture straightens and you look the villager dead in the eye, "I don't believe anyone asked your opinion."

Salvatore: 😳

This is not the time, and he totally knows it, but, uh, something about your tone??? Really does it for him???

While he's attempting to process why exactly he's starting to short circuit, you proceed to verbally shred this person to bits with clinical efficiency-- nothing is off limits.

They might try to defend themselves, but it's useless. You do not let up.

"Ugly? Monster? Bitch your teeth are throwing gang signs, don't throw stones from your shining glass house."

You insult their appearance, what they're holding, their smell-- you get so fucking mean that you might even make them cry.

Moreau is just lost right now, trying hard to figure out how exactly you were able to gain all of this confidence so quickly.

He's not upset! In fact he's very flattered! But, he also doesn't want you to get into a fight with some unimportant stranger. (After all, if they so much as throw a punch, they're straight up dead. Moreau is a patient man, but he's not that patient. You do not hurt his partner and live to tell the tale.)

He may a healer but...

Eventually he steps between you and the fisherman in an attempt to deescalate the situation, but you just kiss him on the cheek and step around him, determined to make your point.

Blushing hard, Moreau lets you do what you want. What can he say? Fish man likes himself a protective partner 💞

Karl Heisenberg

Magnet Man is not the most social guy to begin with, so any opportunities you have to stick up for him are already pretty slim.

He mostly knows you as the shy, sweet, easily flustered partner that lets out a cute squeak every time he sneaks up to hug you from behind.

Karl's honestly happy just to spend time with you all alone in the Factory. It's not the best or healthiest mindset, but he'd be perfectly content to only ever see you for the rest of his life. Spending time with anybody else feels like a boring waste in comparison.

But occasionally, you do head out into town with him. Heisenberg wants you to be safe so he doesn't do it often, but running errands with you is a weakness of his. It's domestic in a way that he's never experienced before.

He likes it ❤️

What he does not like is the shopkeeper starting to give their opinions on the quality of your relationship with him.

Most insults Karl will let slide because he doesn't particularly care. However if anyone makes a comment on how scared (shy) you look around him, how you must be being threatened into being with him, how poorly Lord Heisenberg is treating you...he won't stand for it.

But before his fingers can even twitch towards his hammer, you snap.

"You're clearly the blindest cocksucker I've ever met--so wipe the cum out of eyes and mind your own fucking business."

Karl does a double take.

He's heard you curse before, but quietly. The words coming out of your mouth are WILD right now, he has NEVER seen you so angry. You're defending him with the aggression of a wild animal, and it's simultaneously HILARIOUS, but for some reason he's also getting a warm fuzzy feeling in his chest?

He doesn't need you to protect him like this, but seeing you blatantly argue how much you love and cherish him in public reassures him in a way he didn't know he needed.

Still, hearing you call the shopkeeper "shit for brains" is the funniest thing that's happened in years.

Heisenberg starts laughing, and the more you shout at the idiot, the harder he laughs. Is it weird how hard he wants to kiss you right now?

Eventually, he just has to drag you away, cackling as you continue to shout insults at the unfortunate shopkeep. There's got to be an alley around here for some good old fashioned privacy 💕

#lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu x reader #donna beneviento x reader #salvatore moreau x reader #karl heisenburg x reader #resident evil village #re8 #resident evil 8 #resident evil #alcina dimitrescu #donna beneviento #salvatore moreau #angie beneviento #karl heisenberg #angie the doll #swearing #insults

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theartofimagining13 · 2 years

Photo

BASED ON: Tom and Ben were enemies in their shady business. Ben captured Tom and thought he would finally get rid of him and climb up the ladder until his nemesis revealed the ace up his sleeve; he had you. Tom had l... [More]

WRITTEN BY: A.Wölf.

NOTES: Kids, you know me. There’s bad men, guns, blood, and lots of cursing in this story.

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

The dripping sound coming from an old rusty pipe echoed in the empty warehouse.

It served like a metronome for the man with a hood over his head, strapped to a chair in the middle of the big space, humming Johnny Cash to himself.

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel.

Thomas sang lazily, practically reciting the song after waiting for hours for someone to show up. He heard steps in the distance but that didn’t stop him; he kept singing. His captor Ben, with a cup of coffee in his right hand, a gun holstered in his waistband, and flanked by two men stopped several feet away from the chair to listen. At first, he thought Thomas was just mumbling random words, still in a fuzzy, barely-conscious state after being struck in the head with a heavy object to be kidnapped and brought to him.

As Ben got closer, he recognized the song and rolled his eyes at his colleagues. He reached the empty chair in front of Thomas and straddled it.

And you could have it all.

My empire of dirt.

Ben brusquely removed the hood and Thomas winced a little but kept his head low and carried on with the song.

I will let you down.

He slowly lifted his head to finally look Ben in the eye and deliver the next line while looking just as bored as his singing sounded.

I will make you hurt.

He finally stopped and cocked his head.

“Hardly. I mean, look at you.” Ben said with a proud smile before taking a sip of coffee. He suddenly raised his paper cup. “Coffee?”

Thomas glared at him.

“You are absurdly predictable, Benjamin.” He said.

“Why the hell did you blow up my shipment then, if I’m so predictable? You have no idea the amount of money I lost. It’s obscene. Not to mention all the clients who are now pissed off at me because of you and your army of cocksuckers who torched my product.”

“Which could’ve been avoided if you had kept your shit out of my territory. You were warned once.”

Ben finished his coffee and placed the empty cup on the floor.

“Did you really think you could fool me and bring in over a 150 K’s without us noticing?” Thomas pushed with undertones of disbelief right before letting out a chuckle. “We have eyes and ears everywhere. And now this?” Thomas motioned at his tied self. “God, I always knew you were a dumb prick, Ben, but I clearly underestimated your level of idiocy, didn’t I?” He paused. “My people will come after you.”

“I don’t give a fuck. You put a bloody target on my back anyway.” Ben said through gritted teeth.

He got up and, it wasn’t until then that Thomas noticed the medical surgical trolley behind him.

“You’ve given me no choice, Tommy.” Ben said as he studied every single torture tool before him, trying to pick one. “I’d be choosing my last words if I were you.”

Thomas studied him trying to tell if Ben was bluffing, but he suddenly turned around with a hacksaw in his right hand and a big smile on his face.

“I always wanted to use one of these. However…” He turned back around.

Thomas realized he’d have to negotiate. He forced a chuckle.

“You want to climb up the ladder. I get it. But you don’t seem to understand that killing me will only get you killed.”

“Bosses aren’t untouchable, you know? It’s been done in the past.” Ben calmly said still immersed in his toys. “I know your guys will come after me, but they can either choose to join me or follow you to the grave.”

Thomas finally came to the conclusion that he was in deep trouble but, like any other cunning cartel boss would, he had an ace up his sleeve.

“I’m impressed, Ben.” He began. “I see you’re finally acquiring a general sense of the business. What would your former little flame think of you now?”

Ben instantly tensed up. Fear crept in and shock kicked as he inevitably turned around at the sound of her name coming out of Thomas’ lips.

“What’d you fucking say?”

“Nevermind. I spoke too soon.” Thomas sighed while shaking his head with condescendence. “I never went around killing people that vexed me to get to where I am today. I did my homework. And if you did yours, you’d know that sometimes you don’t even have to get your hands dirty. People will do as you say when they know you’ll pull the trigger on the people they love.” Thomas lectured. “It’s about knowing the enemy’s weakness. And yours… is that beautiful girl, am I correct?” He paused. “You were even selfless enough to sacrifice your own heart just to keep her safe. So romantic.” Thomas mocked.

Thomas smiled at the sudden terror in Ben’s eyes.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This is the kid who’s been moving the new product in town.” One of Thomas’s men said as he walked with him towards the driveway. He handed him a file folder. “His name’s Benjamin.”

Thomas stopped a few inches away from his car to look at it.

“We gave him a warning, sir, but…” The man continued, “…there’s quality in his product. His sells are increasing among our clients.”

Among various documents and photographs, one in particular caught Thomas’ attention. A Polaroid of Ben with a woman.

“This cocksucker might become a problem. Follow him. Find out who she is.” He ordered as he handed the file folder back and got into his car.

Ben missed her.

But he wasn’t safe to be around. Not since he had pissed the town’s mob boss and had taken a beating from his men. And as soon as he knew they were coming for him, he broke up with her without a reason just to keep her out of his messy and dangerous new lifestyle. He thought she deserved better but he was going crazy and missed her like hell.

Ben grabbed a black hoodie and left his place. He walked the streets with the hood on until he stood in front of her apartment building. He looked up at the 4th floor, and as if the universe conspired in his favor, she walked by the window and he caught a glimpse of her. Ben smiled. He wanted that to be enough for him so he could walk home in peace but he felt he would burst into flames if he didn’t touch her.

“Fuck.” He cursed under his breath and entered the building headed for the elevators.

Her face fell when she opened the door and saw him standing there.

“What the hell are you d-”

He didn’t let her finish.

Without a care, Ben ended the distance, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her desperately.

“What are you involved in?”

The former lovers lied in bed wrapped in the sheets and in a bittersweet bliss after making love. She was resting her head on his bare chest.

“I know you’re the one sending me those money envelopes, Ben.” She pushed as she searched for his eyes.

“The less you know the safer you will be.” Ben kissed the top of her head and got up.

She stared at him as he started gathering his clothes and changing into them.

“You keep saying that. What about you? How is keeping me in the dark going to keep you safe?”

“That is no longer your concern.”

“I am not the one who broke things off out of the fucking blue, Ben!” She raised her voice. “You started talking about buying a big house and all these plans you made for us and then you broke up with me.”

“And it fucking hurt like hell!” Ben snapped.

Ben sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. He could feel his lover’s eyes on his back.

“You don’t get it.” He said. “I love you… more than anything in this world. I just can’t let you pay for the consequences of my choices.”

Her eyes welled up with tears as she realized that this was goodbye again, perhaps a much better one that the first one but just as painful.

“Ben, if you truly loved me, you would’ve chosen me.” Her voice broke.

Ben shut his eyes when he felt her getting out of bed to lock herself in the bathroom. Frustration had begun to fill him. He followed her, pressed his forehead against the door as if he was in pain. There wasn’t much he could really say about his reasons and she would never understand them.

One of Thomas’ men was parked outside the apartment building.

He had seen Ben walk in, and watched as he left.

Thomas wore gym clothes and a baseball cap to blend in as just another city runner.

Ben’s former lover came out of a shop and her face fell when she realized her car had a flat tire. She instinctively looked around, not knowing what to do. But before she could even begin to search for a solution in her mind, a blue-eyed stranger stood behind her.

“Everything okay, Miss?”

She turned around to face him.

“Yeah… it’s just…” She showed him the flat tire with a hand gesture.

“I can help if you have a spare.” The kind stranger said.

“Really?” She asked trying to hide her embarrassment.

“Of course.”

“Oh, god. Thank you so much. Let me open the trunk.”

As the woman got in the car, Thomas gripped the knife he had in his hoodie’s pocket. The same one he had used to stab one of her tires when she went into the shop and no one was looking, while pretending to tie his tennis shoe laces next to the vehicle. When the woman joined him again, he held his hand out and introduced himself with a warm smile.

“Let me buy you breakfast at least.” She said once Thomas had done her the favor.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Please. It’s the least I can do. People are very rude in this town, so you’re like a superhero right now.”

He showed a shy grin and finally nodded.

“There’s a place around the corner.” She said.

After motioning her to lead the way, his smile turned evil.

Thomas’ plan had worked and it was only the beginning.

“You motherfucker!” Ben spat as he violently pulled Thomas by the shirt. “What did you do to her!?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s in a golden cage.”

“You fucking touch her I will-”

“Oh, Benny, Benny, it’s a little late for that…” Thomas said venomously. “By the way, did she moan your name a lot in bed too, or does she just really love it when I stick my tongue inside her delicious cunt?”

Ben’s blood boiled. He didn’t think twice and punched Thomas in the face without letting go of his shirt. Thomas had an instant nosebleed but chuckled while Ben was an inch away from his face. Thomas turned his head to stare into Ben’s soul and with blood-stained teeth he grinned like the devil.

“My wellbeing is directly proportional to hers, and only I know where she is.” Thomas stated proudly. “You want to kill me? Go ahead. But you’ll never see her again.”

“You’re a fucking piece of shit.” Ben hissed.

“Valentine ’s Day is just around the corner, mate. What’s it going to be? Will you be sending her a bouquet of roses or a funeral wreath?”

Ben finally let go and stood up straight. He stared at Thomas but narrowed his eyes. He suddenly put his hands on his waist and let out a chuckle as he shook his head.

“You fucking liar.” He said. “You’re just trying to mess with my head.”

Thomas remained silent and serious, until a little smile appeared on his lips and doubt invaded Ben.

“What do you want!?” He asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, it’s not that complicated really. I just want my freedom of course.” Thomas said with an innocent shrug.

“I don’t believe you. I kidnapped you, for fuck’s sake, and you set my drugs on fire just because-”

“No. No. Not just because. You were selling your shit on my territory and for every action…” Thomas trailed off.

“Exactly. If I let you walk out of here, you’re going to hurt her.”

Ben paced back and forth, not knowing what to do. He even glanced at his men who looked just as dumbfounded.

“Untie me and give me my phone.”

Ben made a face.

“I’m a man of my word.” Tom swore. “You want to know if she’s all right, don’t you?”

A couple minutes later, Thomas was handed his phone and he used the one hand they had untied to dial a number. Ben pulled out his gun, aimed at him and cocked it.

“No funny business or I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. Ben listened as he greeted one of his men and asked him to put his ex-girlfriend on the phone. He put it on speaker. Ben’s heart was racing while waiting to hear her voice.

“Hello?”

It almost leaped out of his chest when he recognized it. Ben wanted to snatch the phone away. He was dying to ask her if she was okay.

“Hello?” She waited on the other line but the phone was taken from her.

“Sir?” Thomas’ man said.

Thomas looked Ben in the eye while uttering his next words.

“If I don’t come home tonight, kill her.”

Thomas hung up and Ben instinctively got closer until the barrel of his gun was pressed against his enemy’s forehead.

“You fucking-”

“You have no choice, Benjamin. We’re playing my bloody game now. So you’re going to untie me and never show your face around here ever again because this town isn’t big enough for the two of us.” Thomas threatened.

Ben was seeing red, nothing but fire coursed through his veins.

“You do your part,” Thomas carried on, “and I promise you she will be fine.”

Ben realized he had lost. He had to swallow his pride, felt like he would choke on it, and clenched his jaw as he lowered the gun defeated.

“I want proof of it.” He demanded.

“As soon as you send me your new address.”

“And if you lay one finger on her...”

Ben glared at him in silence for several seconds until he glanced at his men over his shoulder and motioned with his head.

“Untie him.”

Ben crossed the snowy driveway of his cabin to reach the mailbox.

He had done as he had been told and was staying at a secluded place far away from Thomas’ kingdom. He planned to lay low for a while and until he figured out his next move. Ben had been anxiously waiting for Thomas to keep his part of the deal. Otherwise, he’d go back without a care and start a war. He’d do anything for her. But after three days of desperately checking the mailbox in vain, he finally received a small package.

Ben opened it in a rush and pulled out a VHS tape and a note he immediately read.

I’m a man of my word.

-T.

Ben stared at the VHS tape and sighed with frustration. Of course Thomas was going to give him a hard time even from a considerable distance.

“Old school cocksucker.” He muttered under his breath.

After a long drive downtown to visit an electronics store, Ben returned with a VCR so he could play the tape. It had cost him a fortune for being an almost obsolete device. He plugged it to the TV in his cabin living room and popped the tape in. There was nothing but static for almost a complete minute and then it brusquely blended into a clear image of a luxurious bedroom.

Ben got closer to the TV, even knelt in front of it as soon as he recognized his former girlfriend sitting on the bed wearing a blindfold. Ben’s stomach clenched as he feared the worst, but she showed no bruises on her body and she was wearing a dress. The camera seemed to have been hidden on a surface a few feet away from the bed. All of a sudden, Thomas walked in wearing a suit and stood in front of her. He was holding a small box.

Ben’s heart was racing.

“You can take it off.” Thomas said before opening the box. “Happy Valentine’s Day, love.”

Ben’s ex-girlfriend stared at the diamond necklace inside the box and her mouth fell open. She got off the bed to get a closer look and Ben watched as she turned around for Thomas to help her put it on. When she turned back around, she crashed her lips against his.

“I love it. Thank you.” She said excitedly between lip brushes.

Thomas put his right hand on the back of her head and his fingers got lost in her hair as he pulled her in for a very passionate kiss. She pushed his jacket down his shoulders. Thomas was armed and Ben thought he was having a nightmare. But it got much worse when they toppled onto the bed and Thomas began to touch and kiss every inch of her and she threw her head back with pleasure. He groped her breasts as he slid down and pulled up her skirt. Thomas hummed with pleasure when he realized she wore no underwear.

He buried his face between her thighs, and she squirmed with pleasure as she moaned his name.

Ben gripped the remote in his right hand and stopped the video. He got up and started to pace like a caged lion and ran his fingers through his hair as his whole world came crashing down. He was nauseous and a million thoughts were rushing through his head. He didn’t want to keep on watching, he felt like it would drive him insane, but Thomas had a gun in his waistband. What if he hadn’t kept his word and had hurt her instead?

With both anger and fear making his hands tremble, Ben had to press play again.

Thomas lifted his head after a while to see her on the verge of an orgasm, but she groaned when he stopped.

“Tell me what you want.” He murmured.

“I want you to fuck me.”

“You want my cock inside of you?”

“Yes.” She breathed out as he pulled Thomas by the shirt so he’d get on top of her. She reached for the gun. Ben’s heartbeat stuttered but she just deepened the kiss as she left the weapon on the bed, right next to them. Thomas began to unzip his pants. He flipped her on the mattress to penetrate her from behind.

“You fuck.” Ben whispered then screamed. “YOU FUCK!”

He got up, threw the remote across the room which crashed against the wall and exploded into a million pieces.

“SON OF A BITCH! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Rage was pouring out of his every pore. Ben had sacrificed his love for her to keep her away from any possible danger, and yet, Thomas had waltzed into her life and she looked far from afraid of the gun holstered in his waistband. Maybe it even turned her on. Ben finally understood that she knew who he was and what he did for a living and didn’t care.

Was she in love with him?

Ben was sure that Thomas was just using her against him but she had no clue and was enjoying herself which made his stomach turn.

“God, I love you.” Thomas growled as he deepened his thrusts. “Do you love me, baby?” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled it. “Do you love my cock?”

“I fucking love it. I love you, Thomas. Please.” She moaned out of breath. “Go faster.”

He gripped her hips tighter and granted her wish before looking into the camera.

Ben shivered. He felt watched. He felt played, mocked, even emasculated. His eyes welled up with tears of anger.

Thomas showed the most evil of smiles right before throwing his head back and succumbing to the pleasure of her walls clenching around him as she came for him. Thomas was panting as he felt his orgasm getting closer and closer.

All Ben could do was watch as the man he hated poured himself into the love of his life, and he tortured himself wondering whether this all could’ve been avoided if only he had been truthful with her, or if it was just his cruel fate.

About one thing he was absolutely positive; now more than ever, Ben wanted to watch Thomas die.

Slowly.

Gruesomely.

#HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!#Tom Hiddleston #Ben Barnes #Fiction #Fanfic #Fanfiction #HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

95 notes · View notes

shorkbrian · 4 years

Note

Plzzz for the love of god I need more bully Bakugo

Prelude - here have some food. Part 1

Pairing - Bully Bakugou X Reader

Warnings - NSFW, degradation, spanking, noncon, dub con, all the cons. Dead dove.

Music - https://open.spotify.com/track/4VezGgvwNY3mtTbAEkmRMY?si=NxDxEMfERc-3flSDuq8kpQ

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“You’re such a fucking tease.”

Another slap to your ass, and you’re sure that if Bakugou’s hand wasn’t covering your mouth, you’d be wailing so loud that it could be heard across campus.

You’d been avoiding him after that weekend, after he’d tied you down and edged you for hours, laughing at you, occasionally pulling the vibrating dildo out of you just so he could push his cock into you, make you gush around his length. It had been torture, and scarring, and traumatizing, and you couldn’t even think about going to class for the first few days after he had sent you out of his dorm with a smack on the cheek and a “See you around, little bitch.”

There had been no way you were going to the classes you had with Bakugou. You were avoiding him like the plague, blowing off those classes, only creeping out of your dorm when you absolutely had to.

But you couldn’t avoid him forever, and he had told you as such when he grabbed you, shoving you sideways and into a family bathroom as you walked to one of your classes, head held low, feet hurrying.

“I can’t fucking believe you.” The blonde slapped your ass again, the flesh already raw and bruised. “I have the best weekend of my entire life, and then you fuck off and hide. “

Bakugou had you bent over at the sink, face half-squished against the dirty mirror, his hand clamped over your mouth, the other hand abusing your ass. You had been wearing sweatpants, but they were somewhere by the door, thrown there along with your underwear.

“Keep crying bitch, you know it just turns me on.” Bakugou chuckled darkly, noticing your tearstained face in the mirror. “Fuck, you look good like that. You’re so pretty, you made me do this.”

He was so volatile, mood unsteady and often changing for the worse. You couldn’t keep up, just openly sob into his hand.

“How does that make you feel, huh?” He asked, and if you weren’t about to be actively raped, you might’ve laughed. He sounded like a therapist, a fucked-in-the-head, psycho-the-rapist type thing.

“Knowing that I wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t such a pretty little cocksucker. If you weren’t so weak and pathetic, you could fight back. You could even tell someone.” Bakugou laughed again, voice rasping in your ear “But you never do. I bet you secretly enjoy this shit, huh - want someone to fuck you up and make you their little bitch?”

You shake your head, or, at least try to, but Bakugou doesn’t let you. He’s keeping your legs spread with his feet inside of yours, his crotch now pressed against your burning ass, his hand wrapped around your hip to slap quickly at your pussy.

“Yeah, you’re a sick littler fucker, I knew from the second I saw you. Looked like a bitchy little slut, only good for keeping a cock warm. This is all your fault, stupid whore.”

Logically, you knew that what he was saying wasn’t true. This wasn’t your fault, bakugou was just a rapist, a horrible man, this wasn’t your fault at all. But some nasty little part of you reared back at that statement, whispering that maybe it was.

Maybe you had encouraged him by excusing his behavior at first, when the man had first started pushing you around. Maybe it was because you had worn something a bit too revealing, or had done something suggestive while he was looking? You didn’t know what you had done to catch his attention, but you wished on everything holy (and everything unholy too) that you hadn’t.

You jerked away from his touch as he began groping at your cunt, palming over your mound, slipping his fingers through your pussy lips roughly. Your movements only served to push you back into his crotch, and Bakugou rutted forward, trapping you between his fingers and his cock.

“Tch, you’re a piece of work. Crying like that, almost fuckin’ pissin’ yourself like a little girl. Can’t believe I actually fucking like you.”

All movement stopped.

Wait, did Bakugou just say he liked you?

Before you had time to even consider that thought (why would he do any of this if he liked you?), Bakugou was swearing, retracting the hand molesting your pussy so he could work on unbuckling his belt, unzipping his jeans, pulling his cock free.

He was having trouble trying to achieve all of that one-handed, so he leaned forward, hissing a threat into your ear before taking his other hand away from your mouth. The second he did that, you sucked in a real breath, nose too stuffy with snot and mucus to be able to take in much oxygen.

“B-bakugou, ple-please... “

“Ple-ple-please what?” He cooed sweetly, mocking you as he worked his cock free of his boxers.

“I don’t wanna do - I don’t want to, I don’t wanna do-“

“I don’t fuckin’ care, ain’t that clear? But keep beggin’, I like that shit.”

His cock was pushing through your folds now, hips roughly rocking you forward against the sink, which you grabbed onto the edges to steady yourself.

“No, no no no no, no, no-“ you sobbed, unable to say much else. You couldn’t do this, it was too much! His cocked was nudging against your clit on each thrust, and it was sending shocks of pleasure into your belly, making it draw tight. You felt disgusted with yourself.

Bakugou’s hands were on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as his hips worked his cock against you. He was grunting softly, breathing heavily already. And his cock was so hot pressing against your flesh, and you could feel his precum getting smeared everywhere down there, it was so dirty, you wanted to throw up.

The family bathroom was dirty too; it smelled weird, and the mirror had smudges and what looked like a lipstick stain on the bottom edge. There was some kind of crusty buildup around the sink drain, not to mention the discoloration around the toilet.

The state of the bathroom reflected how you felt inside - tainted, disgusting, used.

“Mmh, You gonna cry harder if I put it in?” Bakugou had his hand wrapped around his cock, tapping it upwards against your pussy, laughing as her flinched with each messy slap.

The man didn’t actually care about getting an answer, or maybe the way you burst into another round of tears was enough of an answer for him. He was leaning forward, draping his weight across your back, pushing his mouth right up against your ear.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna pound your little hole, and you’re gonna watch every second of it in that mirror, understand?”

You looked up at your reflection in the mirror, puffy eyes, puffy lips, top askew, bottom half bare. You tried to pretend that you couldn’t see Bakugou’s cock starting to slide through your folds again. You couldn’t stand this, couldn’t look, so you closed your eyes, bowing your head.

“Ah, ah, ah babe - if you don’t look-“ You heard the sound of the impact before you felt it. But when your bruised ass registered the hit, you screeched, almost crumbling atop the sink. It hurt so much, oh god, it hurt. “-that’s gonna happen. So I suggest you open your fucking eyes, and watch.”

Blearily, you opened your eyes, staring numbly at yourself in the mirror.

Bakugou grabbed a handful of your ass, kneading it roughly before spreading your cheeks apart, hand guiding his cock to line up with your entrance. It felt so awful, all of it. There was pain, and shame, and disgust, and you were mortified that the little candle of pleasure in your stomach was turning into a bonfire. At least Bakugou wasn’t a savage, or at least not interested in seeing you bleed (this time, he’d kneed you in the face once when you tried to refuse to suck his dick and given you a nosebleed) because he went slow. Well, as slow as a guy like him could go.

It was still entirely too fast, the way he entered you, pushing his hips forward easily and filling you up in one rough thrust.

You watched from the mirror, legs spread apart far enough that you could easily see when Bakugou was balls deep, his hip bones jutting against your ass. Your poor ass, you don’t think you’d be able to sit for a while after this.

The man paused when he bottomed out, breathing heavily, chuckling almost maniacally as he made eye contact with you through the dirty mirror.

“Fucking shit, you’re so goddamn tight. Mmh-“ he jostled his hips, his cock rubbing against your walls deliciously “-So wet too. You’re such a fucking slut, bet you’d gag on any dick you could find.”

You shook your head “No-no, I don’ - don’ do that!” You wept, but any further argument you were about to make was cut off by Bakugou pulling out, then thrusting into you as deep as he could.

Eyes still focused on where his cock was forcing you open, your jaw relaxed, and you struggled to keep your eyes open. You hated it, you hated it so much, but Bakugou was good at this. He was ramming into you, not fast, not slow, but hard and deep. Every few strokes he would shimmy his hips, and his cockhead hit something inside of you, something that made your legs weak and your pulse jump.

An excruciating pain bloomed across your ass, and your eyes snapped open - when had you closed them? You caught Bakugou’s gaze, and shivered. He was sweating, brows furrowed, intensely focused on watching your face in the mirror.

The intensity he was exhibiting scared you, honestly. Of course, Bakugou was pretty much always intense in everything he did, from playing football to studying (you’d seen him once in the library, hunched over his books with a scowl that could wilt weeds), but you’d never seen him look at something, at someone, like that.

He noticed you looking back at him, which made his cheeks color, and then another slap was delivered to your ass, and you yelped, jolting forward from the pain.

“Ba-akugo! I didn’ - please, I didn’t do anythingggg.” You openly wept.

You were ignored, Bakugou choosing to pound you harder rather than respond.

“Fucking look at yourself, damn. You’re nothing more than a stupid cockslut, a little whore. No one’s ever gonna want you, you’re absolutely worthless.” He spat, threading a hand through your hair, pulling your head back. You had to follow his hand or else he’d rip your hair out, an unspoken threat, so you did, until your back was flush against his chest. He wrapped a hand under your thigh, hiking it up into the air, forcing you to go on your tiptoes as he hooked your knee over his elbow, spreading you open.

“Look at that. See how wet you are? I can hear it.” He growls in your air, breathing heavily.

He was right, the slick sounds of him messing up your cunt reverberating in the bathroom. You could only watch as his cock hammered into you, his pace picking up quickly.

You started to cry, really cry. Ugly, heaving sobs, where you couldn’t breath, your head throbbing towards a horrific headache, hands uselessly grabbing at Bakugou’s arms, not to stop him, there was no way you could - but to steady yourself from the brutality of his thrusts.

“Oh fuck, fucking christ, ‘m close, shit.” Bakugou gasped, and you wiggled in his hold, hyperventilating. You knew it just turned him on more, made him fuck you harder, but you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to dislodge his cock. He couldn’t cum inside, please.

“Not-not inside! Please please please not inside, Bakugou ple-ase!”

Bakugou didn’t respond, just panted in your ear, low groans rumbling through his chest as his hips humped against you, driving his cock into your cunt with a sloppy squelch on each rapid thrust.

You felt him cum.

You felt the first few ropes of warmth shoot inside you, but then the blonde was pulling out, jacking his cock onto your pussy, striping the rest of his cum over the outside of your cunt. It was humiliating.

But you figured it was better than inside.

“Mmm, fuck bitch. You always know how to get me off. Good little pussy.” He finished humming, giving his wet cock one last tug, before messily slapping his hand over your cunt, rubbing his cum into your skin. It felt disgusting.

You let him do what he wanted, let him rub circles over your clit, let him abandon the little nub in favor of sticking two of his cum-covered fingers inside of you, rubbing at your walls quickly. It felt good, but you were tired, and you didn’t want it to.

“Alright, I got class. Wanna suck me clean?”

His hands retracted from your body, and he let your leg down, pushing you away from him as gently as he could (which wasn’t very gently). A side step, then he was in front of you, washing his hands underneath the sink. You watched him blankly.

“Well? You gonna suck me off? Or just stand there like a goddamn fish?”

You slowly dropped to your knees, cringing at the bathroom floor. It was nasty, dirty, probably covered in piss and maybe shit an-

“Jesus fuckin’ christ, I’m gonna be late.” Bakugou was looking at his phone, before his eyes flicked to you. He grabbed a handful of paper towels, dabbing at the mess covering his dick.

“How ‘bout you meet me after my class, and we’ll both get a little treat? Would you like that, stupid bitch?” He crouched down in front of you, pinching your cheek as he talked to you in a cutesy baby voice.

When you didn’t respond, he grabbed your chin, yanking you forward until you were inches from his face. “Say yes, or you’re not gonna like the shit I’ll do to you.”

“Ye-yes, yes Bakugou.” You spluttered, trying to stop hiccuping on sobs, but failing pathetically.

Bakugou nodded to himself, before pausing, as if appraising you. His eyes wandered over your face, and the next thing you knew he was kissing you, lips soft, passionate.

When he pulled away, you were left dazed, still kneeling on the ground. The man rose to his feet, stomping over to where his backpack hung on the door. He stopped to pick up your underwear from your sweatpants, pocketing the fabric as he grinned at you.

“Don’t forgot about meetin’ me after class, got it? Make me wait and I’ll beat your ass.” He paused, cocking his head to glance at your backside, before laughing. “Eh, or maybe I’ll just fuck it.” His eyes gleamed as he straightened his head. “So don’t be late.”

And with that warning he was shouldering his backpack, kicking your sweatpants towards you, slipping out the door.

Belatedly, you realized that your clit was still buzzing, that the pleasure clenching up your stomach hadn’t crested.

With a sob, you let your fingers find their way to your pussy.

#katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #yanderebakugou #bakugou #yandere #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere bakugou #yandere bakugo katsuki #yandere bakugo x reader #bully bakugou

1K notes · View notes

19red · 3 years

Text

hello, this is me trying to strong-arm my brain into stopping the constant tweaking and re-tweaking of the same stinking 3k so I can write on and get to the good parts of this project namely p and j having all the sex thank you very much

The day after Patrick and Jonny bang a chick together, Patrick wakes to the weight of an alien limb squashing his bladder. The alien limb belongs to a furnace-hot, tentacular mass plastered all along his back. The mass smells oddly familiar, kind of citrusy—as if it stole Jonny’s body wash.

Patrick squints his eyes open. A blade of sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains and stabs him in the face. Right under the window, Jonny’s suitcase dribbles clothes onto the floor.

It shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together, but Patrick’s really dumb first thing in the morning. Plus, he needs to pee. Bad. Which is pretty distracting.

He paws at the tentacle swung over his waist, fingers catching on—a beaded string. Did the alien mass steal Jonny’s bracelet too? Patrick struggles to lift his head. He wants to see.

The alien mass stole Jonny’s whole arm. What--?

A growl spills in a damp, ticklish huff into the crook of Patrick’s neck as the mass coils itself closer. Something hard pokes Patrick’s ass. His nostrils fill with a waft of scent his hindbrain understands as so viscerally Jonny that recognition smacks him dizzy.

The mass is Jonny. Last night, he and Patrick banged a chick together. That thing wedged between them, growing firmer by the second? That thing is Jonny’s—

Patrick’s heart plummets straight to his dick.

It’s okay. It’s whatever. Patrick isn’t gonna freak over a physiological response. Bodies are also really dumb first thing in the morning.

“Jonny,” he says, wriggling to catch Jonny’s attention. Jonny has always been his go-to guy in a crisis. Except, in this instance, he is also the crisis itself. Jonny’s hips buck forward once, twice—Patrick stops breathing for the handful of seconds it takes Jonny’s sleep-drenched, horny-ass body to lose interest and stutter back into relative stillness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks. Visions of impending awkwardness swarm his brain. If Jonny were to wake up right now, full-mast boner pressed to Patrick’s ass, and discover the tent pitched in the front of Patrick’s sweats, he might rush to conclusions. Their ability to make direct eye contact would definitely endure permanent damage. They’d have to restructure their life with the aim of reciprocal avoidance. Patrick would have to request a trade. Jonny would probably drop out of the NHL. He’d forsake hockey and society at large and end up trampled to death by a giant moose while he hides from Patrick in the Canadian wilderness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks again. When a whole minute drips away and Jonny doesn’t stir, he thanks the hockey gods. With very little, very slow movements, he dislodges the arm pinning him to the mattress. By the times he’s free, the light slanting in from the window changed the angle of its assault to his pupils. Still careful, he slides the covers off himself, sits up, swings his legs off the bed. His feet land on the floor just as a variation in the pattern of Jonny’s breathing alerts him it’s all been for nothing. Jonny is awake. Or, like, as close to awake as Jonny manages to be coffee-free and before noon. Which is not much, thank fuck.

“It’s early,” Patrick reassures him. Jonny gets real pissy when he doesn’t get his full eight hours. Patrick doesn’t want to get stuck with Captain seriously cranky and his legitimately lethal death glare on the flight back to Chicago.

Jonny hums, lids fluttering open and back closed immediately, dark lashes kissing the top of his cheekbones. Patrick expects him to just roll over and sink back deep into snoring, the man is easy like that, instead he plumps an arm over the empty space next to him and mumbles, “Come back,” so low Patrick feels the vibration of it in his belly more than with his ears. Jonny must think Patrick’s some chick, maybe his ex or the one from last night.

“Dude,” Patrick chuckles to clear his throat. This is prime chirp material. Jonny’s such a clingy loser. “It’s just me.”

The side of Jonny’s mouth that isn’t squashed into the pillow tugs up in a smile, then his eyes tremble open, searching the space in front of them for Patrick’s, as if he knew where to find him, as if he weren’t surprised. It’s a bit like being punched but with weird, devastating gentleness. Patrick’s left breathless and dazed, a slow ache spreading below his ribs. “Sorry,” he says, legs moving on their own accord. “Sorry, gotta piss.”

Jonny flops onto his belly and sprawls across Patrick’s side of the bed. With a sigh, he hugs Patrick’s pillow to his face. “Be quick,” he whines—or maybe not. It’s muffled and Patrick is already halfway out the door so he can’t be sure. It doesn’t really matter.

***

“Where’s Tazer?” Duncs asks in lieu of good morning when Patrick shows up at breakfast almost two hours later, no captain in tow.

Patrick chomps on a hunk of strawberry toast and shrugs. Contrary to popular belief, no clause in his contract bids him constant awareness of Jonny’s whereabouts.

Duncs squints, clearly feeling entitled to a degree of eloquence involving efforts of the verbal variety and resenting their lack.

“Don’t tell me he’s sick,” Shawzy says.

The legs of Stromer’s chair screech against the floor as he scoots away from Patrick. He ends up almost in Brinsky’s lap. “It better not be catching.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick puffs the words fat with annoyance. “He’s sleeping. I mean, I guess he...” He is for sure. No chance Jonny is still waiting. If Patrick barged back into his room right now, Jonny would laugh, would tell him to stop trying to make things weird. Patrick knows this rationally. Yet some spiked grip squeezes his insides with the same vicious strength of an anaconda trying to crush itself a snack.

People can’t die from upset conscience, can they? Especially not if the upset is unquestionably misplaced, right?

“I mean,” Patrick snaps after a second, “the fuck do I know.”

Duncs eyebrows shoot halfway across his forehead.

“Whoa,” Stromer gasps.

“Wait,” Shawzy says. “Are mum and dad fighting?”

Patrick grinds his molars. Everyone’s so fucking pressed. It’s not like Jonny is a regular at team breakfasts. In fact, unless attendance is mandatory, Jonny prefers to limit the number of people upon which he inflicts the ghastly spectacle of his slow de-zombification to a minimum.

Patrick casts his mind back to the last time the two of them didn’t resort to room-service during game trips. He dredges up both no recollection of that happening in years and the stomach-sinking hunch that maybe this is weird. Maybe he should have gone back. Maybe that would have been the normal thing to do.

“Shut up,” he says, to the voice in his head and everyone else. He grabs a pitcher of coffee and fills his cup until it brims. “Don’t talk to me. I’m waking up.”

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Shawzy appraises.

He’s more right than he’d probably care to know—nope. Patrick yanks his thoughts away before they can trip over that precipice and splat into the phantom embrace of Jonny’s body and its heft, its warmth, its neediness.

“Shut up,” he repeats, and with big emphatic motions designed to put a period on the conversation, he whips out his phone. He trusts the mindless scrolling will work its time-warping, mind-numbing magic and when he’ll look up next, all the weird will have been purged from this day.

Between sips of coffee, he pores through the stats for the last game, skims the emails in his inbox and rage-reads a review trashing the new Twilight book. He considers sending the link to Erica so he can vent about the snobby assholes who think they’re smarter than everyone else just because all the books they read are boring as fuck, but she’s probably at work already. He scrolls through his contacts. The one of the chick from last night jumps out. Her name’s Chelsea, which is pretty lucky. She was hot, Patrick recons, and thinking that feels normal. Feels safe. Feels like something Patrick would love to feel more of, thank you very much.

Hi, he types, riding the spur of the moment. This is Patrick from last night.

Stupid and risky, his inner Jonny warns. Never give your number to one night stands. Patrick ignores him and for the sake of clarity and glory, adds, The one who made you see god with his tongue.

“Look who’s joining us,” Shawzy’s voice announces just then.

Patrick’s gaze springs up, landing squarely across Jonny’s chest. Patrick knows it’s Jonny’s chest even though he doesn’t let his gaze climb up to the face attached to it for confirmation. The chest is sailing across the breakfast hall toward Patrick. Well, not toward Patrick specifically. Toward Patrick and the rest of the guys.

“Morning,” Jonny mumbles, dropping his scrambled eggs on the table and his ass between Seabs and Crow.

Patrick’s phone chimes.

well hello patrick 😜

“Slept well?” Shawzy probes, feigning innocence. Patrick’s hackles rise.

“I guess,” Jonny says.

Patrick allows himself another quick glance. Jonny looks good, which means like his usual self, which means nothing like a dude who went through the transformative experience of witnessing his best friend o-face. It’s kind of annoying, actually. Patrick’s nerves are all fried. He’s half-convinced in the right light anybody could look at him and simply—tell. Patrick Kane got off with another dude in the room and enjoyed it. For a blink he’s fourteen and trying to fight a guy almost double his size who called him a cocksucker, that slammed him against the boards and told him not to bother standing up since everyone knows he does his best work from his knees.

His phone chimes again.

“Tell me the truth.”

totally hit me up again next time ur back here

“What?”

Patrick’s heart rate spikes. Would Jonny even be up for it?

Won’t be for the rest of the season :(, he types.

Maybe things feel weird because threeways are a novelty, maybe they just have to work up an immunity. People have threeways all the time and afterward their lives go on undisrupted. But if you’re ever in Chicago… his fingers are so clammy they smudge the screen when he hits send. He reaches for his cup.

“Did you keep our Kaner up all night?”

Patrick’s head jerks up.

“What?” Jonny says, flat.

For the first time since Patrick sneaked out on him, they make direct eye contact.

Shawzy drones on in the background, “Saw you trying to score that hot--”

It last precisely long enough for a sip of coffee to get its lanes mixed as it plunges down Patrick’s throat and somehow u-turn its way out of his body through the nostrils.

Patrick’s lungs try their best to turn inside out.

“Dude,” Shawzy says.

Stromer slaps Patrick’s back a couple of times, hard.

Duncs throws a handful of paper napkins in his general direction and winces in open disgust as Patrick snatches one mid-air and uses it to dab at the liquid leaking out of him. “Gross.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Patrick informs them tartly between fits of coughing. Some treacherous asshole on his right is fucking cackling. He sweeps the table with an encompassing glare and catches Jonny’s eyes again, all dark with concern. The back of Patrick’s neck prickles with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he repeats, steadier, and Jonny looks away so Patrick does too, hurriedly withdrawing like from the touch of something scalding.

He zeros in on Chelsea’s new message.

might fly in for a couple of weeks around christmas actually

Patrick latches on to the conversation, blocking out his surroundings, trying his hardest to look busy. Fuck everyone and Jonny too.

We could catch up then if you have time ;)

totally 👅🔥🍆🔥, she texts. And after a moment, say hi to porn dick from me btw

Who?

🙄

Patrick bristles. For some reason, the thought of this random stranger sitting around with her head full of pictures of Jonny’s dick makes him hitch. His chest riots with some misguided protective instinct. Jonny would be insufferably smug if he knew, no doubt about it. It’s not that big.

it is! 100% porn worthy

You don’t know what you’re talking about

???

I’m just saying, are chicks even into that? he writes, just to be an asshole but also because he’s pretty sure chicks hate porn. It’s supposed to be a feminism thing. Erica once made him a whole speech about it or whatever.

big dicks? They are

Haha

their also into porn btw this aint the middle ages AND they have way better taste in it then men

Can you prove it? he asks, hoping it sounds flirty and not confrontational. He wants this chick to bang him again but not over the head with a blunt instrument.

maybe if u stop trying to outdick ur bf with ur personality ill send you some recs

“Who are you texting?”

Patrick elbows his cup off the table and scrambles to catch it before it crashes against the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his coffee-soaked hand.

Jonny laughs and at the sound, Patrick’s heart stumbles, then sprints up his throat. “You’re a mess,” Jonny says. He stole Stromer chair.

“Yeah, no, fuck off.”

Stromer is nowhere to be found. He and the rest of the guys must have migrated to the lobby. Patrick picks up the phone from where he abandoned it to make the save and shoves it deep into his pocket just as it pings.

Jonny quirks an eyebrow. He’s smiling.

It feels like Patrick trudged around all morning with a lead rib-cage before the universe caught the glitch. The sudden slack from gravity makes him giddy. “Don’t be nosy.”

“I’m not!” Jonny protests, all put upon outrage. He flicks Patrick on the hand. “Just saying, team’s gonna suffer if you sprain a thumb.”

A laugh bubbles up Patrick’s chest, loud and easy, and just a little embarrassing.

For a moment, Jonny looks impossibly pleased but then he catches himself. “Everything alright, yeah?” he asks, turning bashful. His eyes drift to the small heap of crumbs he’s sweeping together with his pinkie.

Patrick nudges his thumb against the back of Jonny’s hand. “Yeah. You?”

Jonny’s lips curl up at the corners. “Of course,” he says, looking up, gaze dark and soft.

Of course, of course, of course. Jonny would never let anything happen to them. Patrick stomach flutters. “Okay,” he smiles, dimples out, and Jonny beams back. Time goes fuzzy as they stare at each other in silence—until the ping of an incoming text makes them both startle.

“Again?” Jonny bitches. A moment later, his forehead creases and he puts his serious face on, “Everything okay with your sisters?”

“Yeah, no. It’s not--” Jonny’s eyes flicks to Patrick’s mouth. Patrick hadn’t realized he’d been chewing on his bottom lip. He stops and it tingles, his own breath turning chilly enough to sting as it laps over the bite. “Just-- the chick from last night,” Patrick’s tongue says forgoing any input from his brain. It’s fine. It’s whatever.

“Oh,” Jonny says.

The world keeps rolling. Unfortunately, so does Patrick’s tongue, “Yeah. She’s cool. She was fun.”

“She was okay.”

Patrick can’t believe the understatement. “Okay? Just that? You’ve got some tough standards, man. She was--” as he searches for the right adjective, it suddenly hits him that Jonny has more experience, at least when it comes to threeways. It’s fucking unfair, but entirely possible, the mind-blowingest sex of Patrick’s life would barely chart as okay for Jonny. While he was dating Lindsay, the two of them got up to some kinky shit, Patrick’s pretty sure. Not that he spent any time thinking about it. He licks his lips. “It was hot, right?”

Jonny scoffs. What an asshole.

“Fuck you.”

“It was hot,” he grants. His cheeks are turning pink. He means it.

It feels like scoring the game-winner in the Stanley Cup final. The rush of triumph makes him cocky. “Hotter than the one you had with Lindsay?”

Jonny scoffs again, to Patrick infinite delight. “It was!” Patrick surmises.

“Lindsay’s hotter than her.”

“No way,” he is so offended on Chelsea’s behalf, he barely registers the deflection. Lindsay dumped Jonny. No matter how she looks, her insides must be rotten. Patrick hates that Jonnys is still hung up on her. He kicks Jonny’s foot to make sure he has his attention. “Maybe we should try again. Chelsea’s coming to Chicago around Christmas.”

“Is she?” Jonny kicks him back. “You two move fast.”

“She’s got family there, I think.”

“Sure,” he sounds skeptical. He admitted it was hot, why wouldn't he want a rematch? He and Patrick and some hot chick, she doesn’t even have to be Chelsea, she can be whoever. Small and blonde, like Jonny likes.

“Or we could find someone else,” Patrick says, growing more committed to the idea each second it lives in his brain. “Just go out and see what happens.”

“You think that’s smart?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I think you’re boring.” He goes in for the kill, “Captain serious.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d even let you pick, I don’t care.”

“Starting to sound a bit desperate there, Kaner,” Jonny flashes his most punchable smirk, the one that’s a little lopsided and always makes Patrick squirm.

Patrick starts a mental list of ways to wipe it off his face. Maybe if he shoved two fingers up Jonny’s nose… “What?” he asks, kind of distracted.

“I’m just saying, If you want to see me naked that bad, you only have to--”

“Fuck you,” Patrick sputters. “I was being generous. Bros before hoes or whatever.”

“I’m telling Erica you said that.”

The thought is terrifying. “Don’t,” Patrick shrieks, so loud people in their proximity stop mid-munching to give them the stink eye.

It’s their cue to clear off, a pretty timely one, considering they barely make it on the bus. They’d probably be yelled at, if they weren’t Kane and Toews.

Jonny saunters past Colliton’s glare and flops down next to Seabs. Patrick takes the two seats right behind, stretching out until he’s almost horizontal.

He checks his phone. Chelsea sent him a text and a link. The texts says, one of them looks a bit like your boy. you’re welcome. The link-- Patrick slaps the phone face down on his thigh.

“You okay there, Kaner?” Jonny asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Patrick feels his ears burn redder than the Hawks home jersey. “Yeah, no. Real peachy.”

#belle #i KNOW i have a tag for my writing #but rn i'm blanking #??????#stuff i wrote

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pronouncingitwang · 4 years

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pre-canon Jon/Georgie | 4.3K words | for @the-magnace-archives

“Laundry detergent is practically a self-contained emulsion—not that it has to be a mixture of anything, but it has a hydrophilic and a hydrophobic end,” says Jonathan-Sims-but-I-usually-go-by-Jon-oh-and-it’s-nice-to-meet-you-too, and Georgie grins. She hadn’t expected much when she dragged herself out tonight, prompted more by the vague feeling that she really ought to make some friends this year (apparently, her tutees don’t count, thanks Mum) than any real desire to do so. Then, she’d looked across Balliol Bar to see the student who’d interrupted their Modern-ish Lit prof in lecture yesterday, holding a briefcase in his lap and scowling at his beer as if it too wasn’t planning to analyze Jane Austen through a post-colonialist lens this year. Georgie had headed over as a gesture of BAME Literature student solidarity, and now it’s been an hour and she’s still here, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Jon doesn’t seem to be a fan of eye contact, which gives Georgie plenty of opportunity to observe. None of his initial red flags—being dressed like a professor on TV, for one—have proven to be signs of a deeper rottenness yet. There’s something in Jon’s gestures—abrupt, abortive, like he’s holding himself back—that assures Georgie that he’s not just doing this as an ego boost. This is all to say that the last three hours of banter and infodumping have been wholly pleasant. Probabilistically, it can’t last.

“Do- do you want to go back to mine?” Jon asks, and god does Georgie hates being proven right sometimes. It’s not that Jon’s unattractive, per se—Alex would have called him “hot in a murder victim kind of way” (and the memory of her voice hurts, but less than it would’ve a year ago)—but Georgie had hoped for a little more class. Plus, even if Jon seems harmless and even if Georgie's not scared, she'd rather not run the risk of being called a bitch tonight. She starts scanning for nearest exits.

Something about her silence must’ve clued Jon in because he quickly exclaims, “Not like that! God, sorry, not like that.”

Georgie pauses in her room surveyal. “Oh?”

“Sorry, sorry, I just meant that- that I’d like to keep talking to you, but it’s really loud here and I can’t think of anywhere quieter that’s open right now. I promise. But in retrospect, I can... I can see how that might’ve sounded.”

He looks earnest enough, and a little flushed as well. Georgie wants to—does—believe him. But she takes a second to size Jon up anyway. Between the eyebags, height (or lack thereof), and twig limbs, he looks like someone she could defend herself against if needs be. Also, she kind of does want to learn more about emulsifiers, or just watch him as he talks about them.

“Well, as long as you mean it—” “I do.” “Then, let’s go.”

(Georgie wakes up seven hours later with a crick in her neck and an Oxford sweatshirt she doesn’t own draped over her shoulders. Her hair’s a mess—she hadn’t pineappled it last night, and the back of this chair(? yeah, it’s a chair) is definitely not silk—and the time is… shit. Oh, and there’s Jon, perched on his bed and looking at her.

“You, ah, fell asleep during the ghosts debate? I didn’t know whether or not to wake you.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Georgie says, rolling her neck and wincing. “Sorry for stealing your chair.”

“Tea?” Jon asks, holding out a mug Georgie’s almost certain was just in the godforsaken microwave. Not that she hasn’t done the same thing on many an occasion.

“Sorry,” Georgie says, “I should probably be going; I’m gonna be late for a lecture. But before I leave—do you want to do this again tomorrow?”)

Georgie spends some time deliberating over when to pop the question. It’s not fear holding her back; it’s practicality. There’s only a small window of feeling—after “certain she wants this” but before “starting to think losing Jon’s company would require her to take another gap year”—where taking the risk is worth it, and the second stage is coming up much faster than anticipated. (She’s never thought of herself as someone who falls for people fast—she hadn’t even realized her feelings for Alex until it was far too late—but now this. Maybe it’s another side effect of getting a philosophy lesson from a corpse. Or maybe it’s just a Jon thing.) All in all, it’s only been three weeks after their first meeting before she asks.

“Are you seeing anyone else?”

“What?” Jon asks, eyes jolting from his book to scan his room for uninvited apparitions. They’d both been unusually absorbed in their readings for the past hour, only interrupting the silence with scoffs and huhs.

“No, like, are you seeing anyone else romantically?” Jon frowns, and a thread of doubt worms its way into Georgie’s throat. “That is what we’re doing, right?” Granted, lunch meet-ups in the dining hall that spill over into long and unproductive study sessions might not scream “date,” but there’d also been a fair amount of (well, okay, Georgie-initiated) arm-around-the-shoulder action a few times. Also, hand-holding, of the fingers-intertwined variety.

“Oh. Um, yes, we’re romantically involved, or I suppose I should say that I hoped we were and didn’t know how to ask for clarification”—note to self: communicate clearer in future, Georgie thinks—“and no, I’m not seeing anyone else.”

Georgie had thought as much, but the confirmation is nice. “Cool. Me neither. Want to keep doing that?”

“Seeing each other?”

“And not anyone else, yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe even start calling each other girlfriend and boyfriend?”

“Oh. Um.” Jon’s leg starts to bounce, which doesn’t seem like a good sign. Georgie waits.

“It’s not that-” Jon begins, then cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to, believe me. I just—I have a… ground rule. That you may not be happy about.”

“Just one?”

“What?” Jon looks startled out of his worry for a second, which Georgie counts as a success.

“Well, I mean, if you’re talking about boundaries, I’ve got plenty. Routines that I’d need you to work around, stuff I don’t want to talk about, and if you’re ever even slightly sympathetic to the Tories…”

Jon doesn’t even laugh at the last one, and she knows he’s not a Cameron cocksucker. Something’s really bothering him.

“This one is… a pretty big deal.”

Georgie tries to keep her tone reassuring. “Let me be the judge of that, yeah?”

“Okay,” Jon says, “okay, yeah,” then nods decisively. “I’m… not going to have sex with you.”

What?

Jon continues, hands fluttering nervously as he explains. “I mean, I can’t say for certain that I’ll never change my mind, but if we’re doing this, it should be under the assumption that I won’t. And it’s not—it’s not a you thing, I swear, it’s just the thought of doing that with—with anyone is just…” he shudders slightly, and Georgie gives him a sympathetic wince. “And I know that’s a dealbreaker with a lot of people. I think I’m—well, it’s called asexuality, there’s some books I found if you don’t believe me, here, I’ll write the titles down—” Jon reaches for his briefcase, presumably to find paper and pen, but Georgie grabs his hand before he can.

“Jonathan,” she says. He tightens a little at the sound, and damn if that doesn’t near break her heart. “Jon. I believe you. And”—she squeezes his palm—“I still want to be with you.”

“Are you—are you sure?”

“Completely. Honestly, I’m kind of relieved?” Georgie says, realizing as she replies just how true the words are. “I’m not sure how I feel about sex yet either, really. I’d wondered, each time I’ve been over, if you’d try to… and then you never did, and I was always glad. I’m not like you, I don’t think—the thought doesn’t repulse me, it just… might not be something I’m ready for yet.”

“But you think you’ll want to later?”

Georgie shrugs. “Well, yes and no? People are hot, but even if I changed my mind about sex, I wouldn’t ask you for anything you don’t want to give me, and I doubt I’d be so horny that we’d need to renegotiate our relationship. I’ve been doing just fine dealing with everything single-handedly. Or,” she amends, “sometimes double-handedly.”

And there it is: Jon laughs, a rusty exhale that makes Georgie smile more than anything.

“So…” she whispers, bumping her nose against Jon’s, “Unless my boyfriend has any more objections…”

“Just to—just to clarify. That’s me?”

Despite her best efforts, a giggle escapes Georgie’s throat. “Yes.”

“Well. In that case. He does not.” Jon says. “Oh. Except. Can I kiss you?” he asks, which conveniently answers one of Georgie’s unvoiced questions.

“Absolutely.”

Their lips meet despite Jon’s grin, but only because Georgie’s smiling just as wide as he is.

That conversation, it seems, marks the beginning of Jon-initiated physical affection. Georgie had assumed before that his lack of cuddliness was fully a result of touch sensitivity, but it's clear now that although the sensory stuff was a factor, Jon had also been holding himself back, trying to avoid any touch which could be seen as either too clingy or a prelude to sexual activity. Now, on some days, there’s a head leaning against Georgie's shoulder in the dining hall, a leg swung over her lap as they sit on his bed, an arm around her waist when they walk to Modern-ish Lit together. It’s not all effortless—Jon still moves like he half-expects Georgie to bat his hand away, and sometimes Georgie forgets to ask before she touches Jon—but they’re getting there.

Currently, Georgie’s wheeling a shopping cart around Tesco with Jon draped over her back like a very determined lichen. It was Steve-from-down-the-hall’s birthday last night, so Jon and a few of Jon’s acquaintances-turning-friends from a budding local urban exploration group had come over to duck into the party and snag several bottles. Georgie’s more than a little hungover, and Jon is no better for wear—he doesn’t drink, but staying up all night has taken its toll.

Jon’s wearing a sleeveless top that, on second thought, may actually be an old skirt of Georgie’s. Either way, he looks great. Georgie’s in her pajamas, and also, for some reason, a top hat? Between the outfits and Jon’s posture, they’ve gotten a few looks, but being literally fearless does wonders for one’s ability to ignore that stuff. Plus, Georgie knows almost all the employees here. They’ll have her back if needs be. Georgie’s not bothered, not by the other shoppers and not by her barnacle boyfriend—Jon’s not heavy, and he matches her every step, only disentangling himself to add items to the cart. She’s just glad they’ve both stuck around long enough to see each other like this.

In fact, there are a plethora of behaviors Georgie can sort into pre-commitment and/or post-commitment Jon things. She’ll make a Venn diagram once she’s certain her observations are solid. Pre-commitment things that Jon has since dropped include making his bed in the morning and keeping his professorial garb on at home. Things that go into both categories are Jon’s love of debate, the posh accent (though sometimes, after Jon’s just finished up a stilted call to his grandmother, his “of”s sound more like “off”s), and the fact that every time Georgie comes over, he opens the door before she knocks, like he’s been listening for her the whole time. Post-commitment, there’s calling her “George” when he’s sleepy; launching into completely sincere dramatic readings of his assignments to help him think passages through; stimming without looking self-conscious about it; and luckily for Georgie, cooking.

“Pasta tonight?” she asks as Jon squints at two identical-looking tomatoes so hard Georgie thinks they might explode.

“Mm.”

“The one on the left is a bit bigger?”

Jon puts the other one down with a scowl. “Maybe.”

The kitchens in Jon’s building have a stovetop and just enough counter space for prep. Georgie insists on helping this time, so she chops vegetables as Jon gets the noodles going. As the water nears boiling, Jon begins to hum something that Georgie thinks is meant to keep time, tapping his foot to the rhythm.

“Whatcha singing?”

“Oh,” Jon says, foot no longer tapping. “I didn’t notice—that is—it’s just. Something my grandmother sings when she’s cleaning.”

Jon doesn’t talk about his grandmother much, but Georgie can fill in the blanks. Again, she's been in the room for some of their phone conversations, and though she doesn't understand Urdu, she does understand silence. So she doesn’t push, just says, “Well, it sounds nice” and keeps chopping. Jon doesn’t sing, or speak, for the rest of their time in the kitchen.

Georgie’s dad said something once about vulnerability being a mutual exchange, and it’s stuck with her ever since. (Seems even more relevant now, since the no-fear thing means vulnerability doesn’t cost her much anyway.) Five minutes into a very silent dinner, Georgie speaks.

“You know, during first term, on the weekends, I didn’t eat dinner at all. Or any meals, really.”

Jon doesn’t move, but she can tell he’s listening.

“It made sense to eat on weekdays, because I’d always come across a cafeteria on my way to class. But on weekends, it was way too much work to drag myself out of my room, sometimes even out of bed. There didn’t seem to be any reason to. And I always had some rolls on hand that I’d taken from the dining halls earlier that week, so it’s not like I was starving myself. But still. Wasn’t great.” Jon nods, which is enough encouragement for Georgie to finish. “So I guess what I mean is, thank you? For being a good enough reason.”

Georgie takes Jon’s hand, and he squeezes back.

(A few days later, when Georgie’s almost forgotten the incident, Jon pulls the blanket tighter around them and says, “I think I’m going to tell you about my grandmother now, if that’s okay,” and Georgie says, “okay.”)

Georgie hasn’t had a bad episode in a long time, but then her dad gets into a car wreck and he’s fine, he’ll be fine, but the bill’s gonna be hell to foot, and Georgie should be calling her English course freshers to see if they or their friends want any more tutoring hours, but instead she hasn’t brushed her teeth in four days and she’s missed her weekly scheduled room cleaning and she has that marked in her calendar for a reason, she has a routine for a reason, but every limb feels heavy and she’d rather stare at the ceiling and wait for it to collapse on her the way it one day will and therefore always has been. She misses Alex. She misses home. She misses being able to move without feeling like she’s dragging her body in a bag behind her.

Jon finds Georgie on what she thinks is a Saturday. He takes a second to scan the room before his eyes alight on the pile of blankets she’s under. “You haven’t been answering my messages,” he says.

The one time Jon had a meltdown in Georgie's presence, he shouted at her to leave, immediately. Georgie thinks she should extend Jon the same chance to escape, never mind that Jon's brain in crisis does better alone and Georgie's doesn't.

“Please go away.”

Jon does go away, but only to the other side of the room—where Georgie had accidentally knocked over her laundry hamper two(? three?) days ago and then stared at it until it felt like her insides had been hollowed out—and starts picking up each item of clothing on the ground, inspecting it, and shoving it back in the basket.

“Is this clean?” Jon asks, holding up a pair of knickers. Under most circumstances, the image would be funny, but as it is, it’s just surreal.

Georgie sighs. “I don’t think there’s a single clean thing in this room.”

“That’s good to know,” Jon says, and then, “Maybe you should get up.”

“Make me,” Georgie says. He does not.

As Jon continues to tidy up the floor, he asks her various bite-sized questions—trying to ground her, she assumes. Where did she get these jeans? What’s that poster on her wall of? Does she need the notes from Thursday? How is she doing? That last one, she elects not to answer.

When Jon’s done with the laundry pile, he asks for a hand to lift the hamper upright again. Georgie considers calling him out on the ruse, but finds that it’s easier to take Jon’s hand as he half-pulls her out of bed. Standing upright makes her a little dizzy, but he holds her still until her vision clears.

But then they go to lift the hamper, and Georgie drops it again and Jon doesn’t catch it fast enough and the clothes go spilling over the floor again, and she screams something at Jon that burns in her throat and Jon blinks and blinks and hardens and yells something back and Georgie wants to throw something or hide or fall asleep but instead she just tells Jon to get the fuck out out of her room.

“Fine,” Jon snaps, and wrenches the door open. He pauses before he takes his first step into the hall. “I’ll be back in an hour, if you want me here then.”

Georgie curls up on the ground and thinks about what Jon breaking up with her would look like and she isn’t scared, just sad, and then she counts prime numbers until she falls asleep again. And then Jon does come back, and Georgie is no less frustrated and Jon is no less hurt, but he’s holding a takeout bag. (Georgie tears through the wrap, and then, upon Jon’s prompting, all of his kebabs too, and he sits there until she’s finished. Once she’s full, she feels a little less heavy.)

Georgie practically runs up the stairs to Jon’s room, phone still clutched in hand. “URGENT,” the text had read, and Georgie had felt a sharp curiosity course through her.

When Jon opens the door, he’s practically vibrating. “I figured out a way to get into the Sheldonian after-hours,” he whispers.

“No fucking way,” Georgie whispers back. “Seriously, how? We have to tell the others right fucking now. But how?”

Georgie had recently dragged Jon into her latest obsession—Oxford history—though “dragged” implies that he hadn’t come extremely willingly. She’d wondered if the incident in the medical building would come up, but Jon had quickly turned to fixate on something else. For the last month, Oxford’s main theater has been the subject of most, if not all of their conversation. That's spilled over into their conversations with their urbex friends (read: all their friends), which has then spilled over into their collective ability to engage in academia. Each member of their friend group—going on different days to deflect suspicion—has been on a tour to scope out the surveillance cameras’ blind spots. Plus, they’ve pooled their money to buy a fancy lockpicking kit.

“Well,” Jon says, hands flapping wildly as he looks for his phone, “I was talking to one of the violinists who played there last year, and then there were some blueprints in the Balliol Library—here, I took pictures—and…”

There’s more planning to do, obviously, if the six of them want to achieve their ultimate goal of “don’t get caught, like, seriously.” They practice treading lightly, quiz each other on floor plans, and (at least try to) confine themselves to a strict sleep schedule to keep their reflexes sharp. It’s unbelievably overkill, but such is life.

Then, there’s scheduling, which is difficult because Marie has two big assignments coming up and Steph works night shifts five days a week, but eventually, the expedition is a go.

Two weeks later, Georgie finds herself standing on the wood floor of the Sheldonian Theater, looking up at the barely-moonlit ceiling.

“Wow,” Jon breathes over a chorus of April’s “holy shit!”s.

“Kind of stupid that Truth is white,” Georgie says, but her voice is tinged with as much awe as Jon’s is.

Jon lets out a huff of laughter. “Next time, we can break in and repaint.”

“By stacking like ten ladders on top of each other?”

“Obviously.”

Georgie’s seen the ceiling before on daytime tours, of course she has, but those times, it was always just a painting, no less shiny and solid than the rest of the theater. The fresco she sees now is smudged with shadow, but that only makes it look more real. It depicts a vortex of orange clouds surrounded by scholars and cherubim. The figures curl themselves around the perimeter, simultaneously drawn into and bracing themselves against the storm. In the center of the swirling mass, Truth raises itself up, holding out its glowing hand. Structural support beams run over the mural to hold the ceiling up, sectioning off various parts of the scene. Every figure is drawn in exquisite detail; the shadows of their robes, the strands of their hair. But from down where Georgie stands, the whole thing just looks like an ancient mouth straining against a golden net, ready to consume them both.

“It’s beautiful,” Georgie whispers, and then, because one time doesn’t seem enough, “It’s beautiful!”

“You’re beautiful,” Jon tells the ceiling, though his whisper doesn't carry very far.

“You’re beautiful!” Georgie whisper-shouts at Jon. (Georgie senses, more than hears, an exasperated groan from Nick behind her, but she pays him no mind. She’s earned the right to be this sappy, thank you very much.)

“So are you!” Jon whisper-shouts back.

“I am!”

Most of their friends begin wandering farther off, but Jon and Georgie stay put. The Sheldonian is a flat-floor building. There’s no raised platform that draws the line between stage and audience, just an area with chairs and one without. Whatever secrets the two of them whisper to Truth, it is both call and response.

“Sometimes, I feel so lonely I could scream!”—from Jon.

“I wish I remembered what fear felt like!”—from Georgie.

“I don’t understand poetry and I never will!”

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong because I don’t know what I’m doing!”

“I wish I’d chosen a different course! I have no idea what to do after graduation!”

“When professors call me Georgina, I feel physically ill!”

“I hate having short hair!”

“I hate having long hair!”

“I wish I’d actually taken my Urdu lessons seriously when I was younger!”

“I don’t feel guilty about quitting all my clubs in first year but I feel like I should!”

“We should be a little quieter!”

“I agree!”

A pause.

“I’m going to fail all my exams!”

“Funny, I’m gonna fail all of mine!”

“I’ll always feel like a disappointment! And I love my girlfriend!” It’s not the first time Jon’s said it, but the words send a thrill through Georgie anyway.

“I stubbed my toe yesterday and it still hurts! And I love my boyfriend!” It is the first time she’s said it. It feels right.

“I’m going to try to get to the balcony without being seen!”

“Good idea!”

“I really do love you,” Jon says again, and begins to move towards the nearest staircase, where Steph and April appear to be arm-wrestling. As Georgie watches his back, she’s suddenly struck by another memory—someone else Georgie loves standing in a building she’s not supposed to be in, taking one of her very last steps away from her. The feeling that rises in Georgie isn’t fear, but it must be the closest thing to it.

“Wait,” she says. (Jon turns around. He really is beautiful.) “I’m coming with you.”

It’s third year, which means fast-approaching papers and goodbyes and post-graduation uncertainties, but it also means Georgie and Jon (and Nick and Marie, but they aren’t arriving until tomorrow) are moving in together.

“You’re gonna have to try to hold still,” Georgie says as she attempts to apply a second coat of purple to Jon’s pinky nail.

“I am,” Jon says. “Can’t you tape around it?”

“I don’t know which box the tape’s in,” Georgie says. “And since someone insisted on having his nails done before we began unpacking…”

“New place, new hands,” Jon says. “It just makes sense.”

“It really… doesn’t… but… there! That’s all of them! Now, just- don’t touch anything for the next ten minutes. I’m gonna do mine now.”

“Yes ma’am.” Jon gives a mock salute, and of course, grazes his nails against his hair in the process. “Oh, shit.”

“You’re the worst. I’m stealing all the blankets tonight for revenge.”

“Which blankets did you pack?”

“I thought that was your job?”

“It definitely wasn’t…”

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…”

“What did you say the last time I asked you to check the packing list…?”

“Shut up!"

“No, I don’t think ‘shut up’ was it. I’m pretty sure it was more along the lines of ‘I’m not an idiot, Jon,’ but if you’re sure…”

“We can check if they’re still there after our nails dry, okay?”

“Okay.”

A few minutes pass.

“I think we should get a cat,” Georgie says. “Do you want to get a cat?” and Jon breaks the holding-still rule again by shouting something incomprehensible and flinging his arms around her.

(Later, over takeout and scuffed nails:

“This year will be a good year,” Georgie tells Jon. “I can feel it. And if it’s not, I’ll make it good.”

“I’ll make it good, too,” Jon says, “Or I’ll try to, at least. I promise.”

And Georgie believes him, and Georgie is not afraid.)

#jongeorgie #the magnus archives #tma #georgie barker #jonathan sims #magnuspod #fic #not sure why it says anonymous i think it's bc i posted to a collection

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substantial-exposure · 4 years

Note

Headcanon request: How would the Bowers Gang react to their girlfriend's (poly or individual, I don't mind which one you choose ^^) ex - who is still her best friend but obviously likes her/calls her petnames - coming to visit her from their home town? What about when that ex tries to distract their girlfriend from hanging out with the Bowers Gang?

I wrote this as poly but it can not be I just didn't section these off tbh

TW: normal stuff for the boys, smoking, drinking , cursing, homophobic slurs, Patrick, blood probably

---------

Bro it's on sight

They find out he's coming back up for the summer and they're so annoyed

Like they're just fucking vibrating with annoyance

Bc Henry wants to rip his fucking head off and he knows he can't

So he just sits in his agitation with the rest of the boys

You only started collectively dating the Bowers gang six months ago but you've all been friends for way longer

So they knew this bitch from stories

And those said summer visits

And none of them liked him even back then

They had to deal with the aftermath of that prick

Granted it turned you into the person you were

But still

He hurt you

He hurt what was theirs

And that wasn't gonna slide

The boys are the only ones allowed to call you pet names.

But anyway

They all first met when they were 14 (Patrick was 16)

At the time Vic and Pat were the only ones who called you 'pet names'

But those were more of a joking manner

Say Vic was teasing you he'd use them in a demeaning manor

Patrick was still trying to laid so he's mostly the same

So when Calvin called you 'baby cakes'?

They all collectively almost burst a blood vessel

Vic was the only person who called you that.

So hearing it leave that boys mouth?

Obviously he had a death wish

It only grew with time

You had told the boys that Calvin was coming up this summer

The last two years he couldn't one due to his family vacation and the other on your summer school classes

However the entire gang was blackout drunk when you told them

So no one remembered

Henry was going to your house to hang out with you and he saw this kid in your house so he played dumb

But he still knew who it was he wasn't stupid

You answered the door and let him in, immediately he had an arm around you.

This bitch really sat down at the kitchen table and looked at this guy knowing damn well who he was and said

"Hey sweets? Who's the fag?"

"Henry... This is Calvin... you've met him before"

"I think I would of remembered you hanging out with a queer."

You snickered and covered your mouth, hitting his arm gently

"Henry that's mean"

"Do I give a shit?"

Que Henry kissing the side of your head.

This kid was dead silent. Whenever you weren't looking he was glaring and sending daggers at Henry

If Henry didn't have the slightest bit of self control that he did have?

He'd of fucked the kid up right there in your kitchen

But he knew that you'd kill him if he did that

So he refrained and just made passive aggressive digs at him every chance he could.

Henry was generous like that

If Patrick heard about this guy coming up he'd be on the fence

Patrick made jokes about a three way when you were drunk and talking about it

He expected your plans to fall through like that had the last two times

Oh but they didn't fall through

And you didn't tell him about it?

He was fucking livid

When he saw you and him walking while he was out on the town getting a mouse for his (unofficial) pet snake?

To avoid interruptions like Henry, Calvin thought to take you out on the town

So last minute plans

Out on the town surely Henry wouldn't find you there

Calvin didn't know about the rest of the boys

It was over for you once Patrick saw

He let go of that fucking rodent so fast

Immediately he was on you, wrapping himself around you in a hug that was mostly groping

All of his snarky attitude and smirks were on full display

Those looming looks that would make anyone freeze

Yeah Calvin was annoyed and felt a faint sense of dread creep in

Patrick didn't even say anything yet and Calvin was shaking

His arms slipped to your waist while her rested his chin on your shoulder.

"Hey there sweetheart ... thought I smelt your perfume. Say, who's this"

"Henry said the same, This is Calvin. My friend from Welton"

Really goes to show how much they pay attention when you talk (atleast you thought he wasn't paying attention)

But as soon as you name dropped him Patrick remembered everything

He remembered when you got that breakup letter in the mail

God he remembered those tears,

You looked so pretty with your mascara running

Patrick definitely jacks off to that memory but you didn't hear that from me

"Oh Calvin the cocksucker! I forgot what that fag looked like" he said reaching his hand out to Calvin to shake

"I'm (y/n's) boyfriend, nice to see you again" he said with a wolfish grin

Patrick stayed with you guys the rest of the afternoon and accompanied in walking you home

He wanted some alone time with Calvin

The threats that left that boys mouth were enough to scare the boy to his core

You think he'd of laid off right?

Nope.

He most certainly had a death wish

Two days later you and Calvin were hanging out in the woods

Just on a hike having a grand old time

That's when you saw Vic across the shallow water of the Barrens

Smiling he waved to him but he didn't see you

His face was shoved in a book

Your guess would be some Oscar Wilde book

Yeah

Vic is that bitch

But nevertheless that boy was invested

"Vic!" You called out and his head shot up, immediately he was on his feet and ready

Poor boy thought he was about to be jumped

That's when he squinted and saw you across the water

The smile that crossed his face while you picked up the sides of your dress to quickly dash through the water and see him?

Yeah his heart melted

"Hey there babycakes" he chuckled and wrapped an arm around your waist while using his other hand to hold your chin and bring you in for a quick but tender kiss

He pulled back and looked at you then back to Calvin.

"Oh he's still here?"

"Yeah why wouldn't he be"

"Nothing Patrick said something.. and I guess I misunderstood"

"Oh what did he say?"

"Nothing don't worry about it okay, (y/n)?"

From there your hike was accompanied with the dashing blonde

Calvin was trying to hide his anger

How many fucking guys were you leading on?

How many guys were you sleeping with?

He was seriously starting to rethink his feelings and wanting you back

Vic's hand slipped into yours as he began to speak to you about his book

The way he spoke about it was so soothing you couldn't help but listen and nod along

Calvin just walked behind you silently fuming

He was so fucking done with this

But that's not even the best part

When you guys reached your house that night, belch was sitting on your Porch with his car parked in the driveway

Calvin almost lost it

He had to see you run up to Reggie and hug him then kiss his cheek

This was crazy

And immediately both boys could see the jealousy and anger in the other males eyes

So that's what was going on

Belch had offered to hang out with you that night and he intended to do just that

Vic offered to walk Calvin back

You weren't stupid you knew that Vic wanted to talk with Cal

I'm all honesty you let him have it because it was easier to have him get out that masculine possessiveness he absolutely needed to get out of his system.

Besides it was easier to play dumb then face the problem right now

Now you didn't hear it from me

But Vic punched him that night.

Yeah

As soon as you and belch were out of his peripheral view he spoke up

"So you crushin' on my girl?"

"What- no"

"Hey I get it. I mean look at her. She's a doll but I'm gonna tell you this now. If you try one more time for what you've been trying to do all week I promise you you won't like the consequences. I'll make your life hell. Understand"

"What are you and your crew gonna do? Huh?"

Vic soaked him.

"Go. I won't be as nice next time"

Calvin went to the only motel in town where he and his mother were staying

He was leaving tomorrow

You were sad about it, you had fun when the boys weren't being dicks to him

You also did have a bit of fun when they were too

Calvin was going for his morning walk just enjoying the sights of the quiet and yet noisy town

He was lost in his own world until he heard the roar of an engine

There was a car coming straight for him.

All four of the boys were in the car (not really in it exactly)

Henry had the window down and was sitting in the space where the glass should be

Patrick and Vic was half out of the car

They began screaming to him until Calvin fell to the ground, scraped up

Vic threw his lit cigarette at the boy and Patrick laughed

Henry's voice was the loudest as they assaulted him with slurs.

"Stay the fuck out of my town. And away from my girl!"

Belch proceeded to speed off while Henry spit back at the boy

Let's just say your letters to Calvin take a lot longer than normal now...

#patrick hockstetter #bowers gang #henry bowers #patrick hockstetter x reader #henry bowers x reader #vic criss #vic criss x reader #belch huggins x reader #belch huggins

159 notes · View notes

wolvesofinnistrad · 5 years

Note

Hey pls can you do a canon for the first time Callum gives Ben a BJ!!!

Ok, technically I think this already happened during the park hookup so I'll kind of split the difference..

That first night at the park Callum is wild.

His hands are everywhere, his mouth stays latched to Ben’s unless the other man pulls away.

He can’t get enough of him, intoxicated, lost in the moment of giving in.

There’s a hunger there, deep and yearning that he didn’t realize was this strong because of how long he’d denied himself but the moment he gave in just a little it came crashing down.

That’s why he was already undoing Ben’s belt buckle, not because he had a plan, but because he just needed every part of Ben right now.

There’s a thunk against his back and he realizes that he’s been pushed up against a tree.

H’s got his hand wrapped around Ben in his pants and Ben’s been storking him over his own, but suddenly Ben pulls away.

Callum whines but then Ben is dropping to his knees with a glint in his eye and Callum almost loses it right then.

Ben sucks the life out of him through his cock and its the closest thing to a religious experience Callum’s ever had.

His fingers are still locked in Ben’s hair when he finally starts to come down from orgasm, panting and sweating.

But now it’s his turn, and he doesn’t know how to do this, not really, but the moment he regains his composure he’s turning them around, pushing Ben into the tree instead.

“You don’t have to.” Ben says, soft, a little unassuredly.

“I want to.” It’s all Callum can say before he’s leaning in, tasting Ben on his tongue.

Remember Callum was a virgin before Whitney and he’s never been with a dude so he’s got hardly any experience.

But he did just have cocksucker extraordinaire Ben go down on him, so he tries to replicate what he remembered happening to him.

The taste is new, salty, sweaty, but somehow still making his mouth water at just the idea of what he’s doing.

He can’t think too much or he might chicken out so he just goes with it, sucking and bobbing inarticulately in a pale imitation of Ben.

Objectively Ben knows this isn’t a good blowjob but... There’s something about it, Callum’s eagerness, the tension between them, that’s making him lose his mind over it anyway.

“Cal, fuck,” Ben moans, thrusting his hips up.

That catches him off guard and he gags, having to pull off to catch his breath.

“Sorry...” Ben breathes, forgetting for a moment who he was with, not just some random hook up, but Callum.

“S’okay,” Callum whispers, voice already sore and raw before he goes back down.

This time he takes his hands and presses Ben’s hips to the tree, pinioning him as his mouth works up and down Ben’s cock, taking as much as he can handle.

The little hint of control Callum exerts gets Ben going and he groans, fingers in Callum’s hair.

He wants to grab him, hold him down on his cock or guide him up and down but he can’t, so he just stays like that enjoying what Callum gives.

Callum remember how good it felt when Ben was teasing his head so he pulls back, trying to work the head of Ben’s cock now that his foreskin has retracted some.

He can taste his precum now and its so weird to know what that tastes like now, but he’s focusing on his task.

It’s sloppy and messy, but Ben begins to openly whimper and his fingers clutch harder at Callum’s hair so he knows he must be doing something right.

He can hear Ben’s breathing picking up and he starts going faster, just bobbing on Ben’s cock up and down, back and forth.

“Cal! Callum I’m gonna....”

Callum hears but he keeps going, he wants to do what Ben did for him, take him all the way there.

Of course Callum doesn’t know how to swallow as Ben cums so he kind of just holds all that cum in his mouth with an awkward face.

FInally Ben looks down, eyes soft and crinkling at the edges and laughs.

“You can spit it out.”

Callum does, thankful, but before he can do anything else Ben is dragging him bakc up for another heated kiss, and he can taste their combined releases on their tongues as they mingle.

Callum doesn’t want it to stop.

Callum’s first time sucking Ben’s cock after admitting he’s gay.

By now they’ve already had sex a few times.

Ben has blown Callum a lot, and they’ve done anal, frotting, handjobs.

But Callum hasn’t blown Ben again, not yet anyway.

It’s not like he’s avoiding it, it just hasn’t come up.

One day though he decides enough is enough.

They’re on the bed, watching a movie on Ben’s laptop as Callum starts kissing at his ear, his neck.

Ben chuckles, fingers caressing Callum’s face, but still watching the movie.

Callum puts a hand on Ben’s chest, rubbing for a moment before sliding down down down to cup his bulge.

“Callum...” It’s a little whispered moan from Ben and his eye are shutting and Callum knows what he wants today.

He’s working this one spot on Ben’s neck that makes the man mewl as he unzips him and fishes out his cock.

Callum raises his hand to his mouth and spits in his pam before going back, using it as a little lube to ease things as he strokes Ben to full hardness.

“That’s so... BLoody hot,” Ben moans. He kicks his laptop shut, movie forgotten now.

Callum is experienced with Ben’s dick now, he knows what Ben likes, for the most part, how it feels in his hand, the heft and weight of it, but he wants to know more.

He straddles Ben’s thighs, ripping open the buttons on Ben’s shirt before kissing over his chest.

Ben’s breath is coming in stutters as Callum finds a nipple and latches onto it, sucking and biting like Ben has done to him, all the while still slowly stroking his cock.

Ben normally considers himself a powerbottom, but he has to admit that when Callum takes control he kind of loses it. There’s something about that man who’s so soft and docile normally taking charge that riles Ben like nothing else.

“Fuck me... Fuck,” Ben pleads, fingers in Callum’s hair.

Callum just leans in and kisses Ben, effectively shushing him before working on the opposite nipple.

He loves hearing Ben moan, watching his body react beneath his fingers.

Ben’s poor cock is weeping already, every stroke making more precum gush from his slit.

Slowly Callum crawls backwards down the bed, hooking his fingers in Ben’s pants and pulling them down and off.

Ben thinks hes about to get fucked, which he’s so ready for, but then Callum grips the base of his shaft and starts licking at the head and he groans in pleasure.

Callum is still not sure how this works in practice, even if Ben’s done it a lot to him and he’s done it once to Ben.

He wants to be good though, to make Ben feel good, to learn how to pleasure him the way Ben does him.

Long, slow licks up and down the shaft, from root to tip, kisses, he tries everyhting he can think of.

He hum as he wraps his lips around Ben’s cock, taking him down as much as he can.

Cal tries to speed up, but after a few moments he gags again and has to pull off.

That’s when he sees Ben’s got his fingers curled in the bedsheets so hard it looks like he might rip them and he remembers how Ben had his fingers in his hair the entire time before.

This gives him and idea and he reaches for Ben’s hands, gently unlocking them before guiding them to his head.

“What?”

“Show me. Teach me,” Callum says, looking up at Ben with earnest enthusiasm.

Ben’s never been more turned on in his entire fucking life than watching Callum Highway stare up at him and ask to be taught how to suck cock.

Ben nods, one hand in Callum’s hair. He gently presses cAllum down, not too much pressure, just enough to guide him.

Callum takes Ben’s head in his mouth, licking and sucking..

Ben shivers and moans, fingers gripping tighter as he pulls Callum up, then presses back down again, showing him the rhythm he likes.

“If you can’t, can’t take it all you, fuck, you use your hand to work the rest,” Ben says, biting his lip as he takes Callum’s hand and puts it on his cock.

Once Callum is stroking him while his mouth works the rest Ben isn’t sure how much longer he can last.

“IN time you can t-take more, fuck, but for now this is good toooo~”

It’s hard to focus on instructing when Callum’s getting better by the minute which means Ben can’t think straight.

“You can work the balls too, lick, suck, fondle...”

Callum pulls off to do that, but returns his mouth to sucking on the tip while his hands work the shaft and Ben’s balls.

Ben actually can’t take much more.

He starts guiding Callum to bob up and down again, getting faster and faster, but still mindful of not gagging Callum.

Callum loves it, loves the way Ben is moaning wantonly, loves knowing that Ben is showing him what he likes, giving him the gift of that knowledge so he can use ti to make his boyfriend feel just as good.

And he plans on getting good enough that he can wreck Ben with just a few sucks like Ben can do to him.

He’s massaging Ben’s balls which he can feel getting tight and drawing up, twisting his wrist to jerk Ben off faster.

Ben keeps guiding his head and Callum uses hsi tongue to stimulate the underside of Ben’s cock as much as he can as his lips glide over the glans repeatedly.

“Cal!” is all Ben shouts before he’s cumming down CAllum’s throat.

This time Callum is more prepared, and while he can’t exactly swallow it all, some leaks out the sides of his mouth, eventually he does manage to swallow down the rest.

When he pulls away theres a string of saliva and cum connecting his lips to Ben’s cock and Ben has to take a mental picture of the literal hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Callum leans bakc down, sucking on the head, clenaing it off and giving him a few more strokes until he hears Ben hiss.

Ben’s breathing is ragged, he looks fucked out like they just had mindblowing sex, and he guesses they did.

“God help me once you can do that on your own, Ill be dead,” Ben says, resting against the headboard, out of breath.

Callum smirks, moving up to lay on hos boyfriend and kiss him stupid.

“I can, I can return the favor just, gimme a minute. Kinda sucked out my soul there like a fucking dementor.”

Callum laughs and kisses his idiot nerd boyfriend again.

“DOn’t have to. I don’t always return it, sometime it can just be one of us wanting to take care of the other, yeah?”

Ben’s eyes get a bit glossy at that, he’s used to giving and not receiving in return, but not used to getting and not returning.

With Callum though, it feels okay, like someone wants ot make him feel good and that’s all that matter.

“Alright.”

“Good, so, was I doing a good job?” Callum asks, nervous still.

“I said you drained me, best blowjob you’ve ever gave, and definitely top 5 all around. With some practice you’ll take every spot soon enough for fucks sake,” Ben laughs, and Callum does too, both of them trading lazy kisses as the afternoon wears on around them.

#ben mitchell #callum highway #ballum #my fic #headcanons #mine #benway

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tim-shepard12 · 4 years

Text

I had been sitting in my room bored as all hell. I couldn't sleep. Someone knocks on my window.

"Pat let me in." Someone says in a hushed whisper.

"Who is it?" I whisper

"Its me Henry" he says "please let me in"

I let him in. He looked awful like he'd been crying. There was blood on his jeans and his shirt was torn.

"Who hurt you?" I ask, pulling him into a hug. "Henry who did this to you?"

Henry wraps his arms around my waist.

"I...don't want to talk about it…" he whispers, burying his face in my shirt.

I pet his hair "calm down Henry… its okay you're safe now"

"He's coming for me… I made him angry…"

"Henry buddy. He won't find you" I kiss him on the forehead "do you want to stay here for the night?"

"Mhm" he says nodding.

I slowly remove his shirt.

"What are you doing!?" He asked

"Helping" I smirk.

"...fine" he pouts.

I toss his shirt aside. I tilt his face up towards my own.

"You should probably put some ice on that" I say pointing out his black eye.

"Okay…" he glances down at the ground.

"Henry, buddy I'm just trying to help you" I say, hugging him. "Just sit down on my bed. I'll be right back."

I head to the bathroom and soak a washcloth in cold water. I bring the washcloth back to Henry.

"Put this on your eye… it'll help"

"Only if I can get my shirt back"

"No way I'm going to get you a clean shirt."

"Why are you helping me?" He whispers.

"Because... " I try to think of a good answer "well you showed up to my house?"

"I had nowhere else to go Victor and belch were well let's just say 'busy' you were my only option"

I sit down next to him and pull him closer to me.

"You aren't being very subtle pat" he smirks.

"Fuck you Bowers." I smirk pulling him onto my lap.

"Pat…" he whispers, tugging on my shirt.

"Yes puppy?"

He pouts "don't call me that"

"Why not, puppy?" I kiss his cheek.

"Sh-shut up… I'm not a puppy." He becomes flustered.

I softly bite his ear.

"Mm pat…" he moans softly.

I remove the washcloth from his face and set it off to the side. "Look me in the eyes when I speak to you" I say, turning his face towards mine.

He does as I tell him. "Good puppy." I smirk as his face turns bright red.

I rest my chin on his shoulder.

"Pat it's getting late" he says, his hand pressed against my cheek.

"What are you scared of the dark?"

"No I'm not, cocksucker"

"You can tell me anything Bowers I'll listen. I promise." I say playing with his hair.

He turns around and faces me.

"Are you sure about that hockstetter?" He asks grining "it seems like you're pretty distracted"

He was right. I'm very distracted. "You caught me Bowers." I smirk

"What do you want, Hockstetter?"

"I wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk tomorrow morning" I smirk

"Pat… don't say shit like that. I will fucking punch y- "

I roughly kiss him. He pulls on my shirt.

"What do you want me to do to you?" I ask

He mutters something.

"I couldn't hear you, puppy"

"You're nuts hockstetter. Seriously you can't just go around kissing people like that"

"Why not? You liked it"

"No I didn't," he says flustered.

"Your body is telling a different story" I smirk.

"Sh-shut up hockstetter" he tugs at the hem of his shirt.

"Come on puppy" I smirk moving him off of my lap. I pin him against the bed. My thigh pressed against his crotch.

"...pat…" he mutters "what are you doing?"

I slowly rub my thigh against his crotch causing him to moan softly.

"Good puppy, moan for daddy"

"Fuh-fuck me" he moans softly as he bites his lower lip.

I stop rubbing my thigh against his crotch.

"Don't stop…" he wraps his arms around my neck.

" I wanna hear you beg"

"Fuck me daddy" he mutters grinding against my thigh.

"Good puppy" I kiss him on the forehead.

"Mm pat… my pants are tight…" he mutters. "I want you to take them off" the grinding becomes more aggressive.

"Okay puppy" I smirk shoving him onto the bed. I undo his pants and roughly slide them down.

"Mm pat…" he moans softly. He grabs onto the collar of my shirt "I wanna hear you say my name"

"Puppy?" I jokingly ask.

"No" he pouts. "Say my name hockstetter"

"Henry" I whisper in his ear.

"Pat…" he whimpers "fuh-fuck me…"

I roughly kiss his neck as I slide a hand under his shirt.

Henry lets out a soft whimper. I pull his shirt off and kiss his chest.

"Pat…" he softly moans.

"Yes puppy?" I ask resting my head on his chest.

"Thank you" he says as he plays with my hair. "I mean for letting me in. Thank you."

"Buddy you're my best friend. I wouldn't have left you out there" I say as I hold his hand. "... I love you…" I whisper and kiss his hand.

"What?"

"I said I love you. Is there anything wrong with that?" I ask.

"Nuh-no not at all"

"What's wrong Bowers?"

"Nothing Patrick… I just didn't think you'd actually say that…" he blushes.

"Aw is Henry embarrassed?" I tease him. He turns his face away from me. "Aw come on Henry… it was just a joke… would a kiss make it better?"

"Yes…" he mutters letting go of my hand. He tugs at the fabric of my shirt.

"What do you want puppy?" I ask "do you want me to take my shirt off?"

He nods tugging on my shirt some more.

"Okay okay" I pull my shirt off and throw it behind me. His hands graze my chest.

"Henry…" I mutter "are you okay with me liking you?"

"Yes pat I'm okay with you liking me" he softly smiles. " now kiss me"

I softly kiss him. As I pull away I whisper "I love you Henry"

"I know Pat." He smiles hugging me. "I know." He gently brushes my hair out of my eyes causing me to blush slightly. He giggles.

"God damn you're cute…" I kiss him again.

"Pat…" he looks me in the eyes.

"Yes puppy?"

"Sleep... "

"Hm?" It takes me a second "oh!"

"...can you get off of me? I can't move…"

"Oh yeah. Sorry puppy" I say standing up and stretching.

"Pat" he says as he makes himself comfortable on my bed. "I wanna cuddle with you. Come here."

"I'll be right back puppy." I say as I put my shirt back on. "I'm gonna go shower"

I quickly shower and head back to my room. I turn the light off and walk over to my bed. "Henry scoot over" I whisper, nudging him.

"Hmf fine…" he scoots over.

I pull him close to my chest. He wraps his arms around me.

"I don't want to leave," he mutters.

"What do you mean?" I ask "puppy?"

"I don't want to go home…" he whispers "don't make me go back there" he's crying.

"Henry baby don't cry. You don't have to go home if you don't want to" I say as I pet his hair. He looks up at me. His face is tear stained "...you mean it?" He asks.

"Yes… yes I do" I kiss him on the forehead "try to get some sleep puppy" I whisper.

He falls asleep but he doesn't stay asleep for long. I had to wake him up after he started crying about his dad.

"Henry… wake up" I say softly nudging him. "Henry baby it's just a bad dream"

"I'm sorry pat…"

"Don't be sorry. Do you want to talk about your dream?"

"Not really… I just don't want to go back to sleep."

"Okay Henry." I hug him. "It's gonna be okay." I press my hand to his cheek. He looks up at me.

"Come here…" he mutters as he slides an arm around my waist

"Getting handsy? Hm puppy" I smirk. I scoot closer to him.

He grabs my wrist. "Pat," he looks me in the eyes "if you move your hand you're dead. Understand?" I nod "good"

He places my hand on his lower back. I pull him closer. He softly kisses my neck.

"Henry...wait…" I mutter as the kissing becomes rougher.

"Hm?" He looks me in the eyes "Pat… baby? Are you okay?"

"Yeah… suh-sorry..."

"Pat is there something you want to talk about?" He asks

"Nuh-no… there isn't anything I wanna talk about…" I say trying to avoid his gaze.

"Pat baby, you can talk to me."

"Can you just punch me in the face?" I mutter

"Why? Why do you want me to do that? What's wrong baby?"

"I'm sorry…"

"Pat no… don't be sorry… what's wrong?"

"...it's you… you're the only one I've ever loved, and"

"And?" He asks

"I'm scared…" I say as I try to hide my face.

"It's okay Patrick. Seriously bud. I understand how difficult this must be for you." He smiles hugging me.

"...you mean it…?"

"Yes"

At some point I end up falling asleep in his arms. I didn't mean to fall asleep but it happened.

"Hey… Pat baby… wake up" he gently shakes me. "Pat wake up"

"Hm?" I say sleepily "oh hey puppy. Did I fall asleep?"

"Yeah I didn't wanna wake you up. You just looked so calm." He kisses me on the forehead "I love you pat."

"Thanks Henry." I hug him. "But next time wake me up. I don't want you to be alone."

He hugs me back. He doesn't say anything in response to what I told him.

"Puppy…" I whisper, nudging him with my knee.

"Hm?" He looks at me "are you okay?"

"Yeah I'm fine" I say as I try to turn away from him.

"Pat? Is something wrong?" He kisses my neck.

"Mm… fuh-fuck" I mutter as Henry pulls my shirt off.

He begins kissing my chest.

"Heh-Henry wait… I had plans for today…"

"Like what?"

"Well… I planned on taking you on an actual date…"

"...oh… Pat" he smiles "that's really sweet. Seriously. God you're cute"

"So?" I ask "will you go on a date with me Henry Bowers?"

"Yes. Of course. You bone head. Can I call you my boyfriend now? Like is that okay?"

"I mean sure…"

"... hey um pat… could you maybe not call me puppy in public?"

"Yeah I didn't plan on it."

"... thank you" he hugs me.

"Henry, we should probably get going if we wanna do anything today."

He pouts and sticks his tongue out.

"What did I do?" I ask.

He mutters something I can't understand.

"Hm? Did you say something?" I ask.

He leans in closer to me. He whispers in my ear. "Let me suck your dick…"

"Huh? What?" I say flustered.

"You heard me correctly, hockstetter" he licks my ear causing me to moan softly.

He kisses down my chest.

"Henry, wait…"

He kisses above the waistband of my boxers.

"Hm?" He looks up at me.

"Nothing… it's fine. Continue as you were"

"You're nervous aren't you?"

"What no… I'm not nervous…" I stutter

He kisses my neck and nudges my crotch with his knee.

"Mm Henry…" I mutter. "What are you…?"

He puts a finger to my lips "don't talk"

I lick his finger.

"Gross hockstetter gross" he mutters, wiping his hand on my shirt. He presses his leg against my crotch.

"Pat" he mutters as he rubs his thigh against my crotch causing me to moan. "You're so hot like this" he kisses my neck.

I wrap my arms around his waist.

"Lower" he whispers

"Hm?" I ask

"Move your hands lower"

I grab his ass. He smirks.

He bites my neck.

"Henry…"

"Yes…?" He asks

"Can you move your leg… just slightly"

"You mean like this?" He smirks aggressively rubbing his thigh against my crotch.

"Henry" I moan softly biting my lip.

"Yes?" He asks as I attempt to take my pants off.

"Suck my dick" I knee him in the crotch.

"Mm fuh-fuck pat…"

I pull him closer to me. "I like it when you say my name" I purr in his ear.

He kisses my neck.

"Puppy…" I whisper.

"Hm?" He rests his head on my chest

I wrap my arms around him. "Tired?"

He yawns "Yeah a bit…"

I pull the blanket over both of us. "I'll protect you. I promise puppy." I whisper.

He soon falls asleep on my chest. I close my eyes. I had no intention of falling asleep. When I wake up Henry is still asleep on my chest. I softly kiss him on the forehead.

"Mm pat…" he mutters, still half asleep. He slowly opens his eyes.

"Sleep well?" I ask him.

"Yeah I did." He smiles softly.

I check the clock. It's almost noon. Great. Lovely. We stayed in bed all morning.

"Come on puppy." I smile "we've got plans today" I kiss his cheek.

"Hm no…" he pouts "I just wanna stay here with you. Besides I'm comfortable." He nuzzles my chest.

Obsession part 2

I failed to convince Henry to get out of bed. We just kind of stayed in bed all day until I heard the front door slam shut.

"Fuck… my parents are home" I say nudging Henry.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get dressed you idiot"

"Fine…" he pouts.

He stands up and stretches. He turns and looks at me.

"What is it puppy?" I ask putting my clothes back on.

"I need a shirt you dumb fuck."

"Just take one from the pile" he grabs a shirt "come on" I lead him downstairs so my parents can talk to him. It turns out they don't want to even talk to me.

"Hey mom, can Henry stay for dinner?"

"Hm? Oh yeah sure…" she dully responds.

"Ya know kiddo there are blankets in the hall closet if you need them." My dad says as he looks Henry up and down. He turns and starts walking over to Henry. "Did your old man finally have enough of you? Is that why you're here? Or is there a different reason?" He glances over at me.

I grab Henry by the arm. "Lets just go back upstairs" I whisper to him.

"Pat… you okay? You seem kinda angry."

"no shit Sherlock of course I'm angry. Why did he look at me like that?"

"Do you want cuddles? Will that help?" He asks.

I nod not saying anything. He shuts the door and hugs me almost immediately.

"You okay buddy?"

"Mhm" I softly kiss him on the forehead.

"I want you to stay safe pat and if that mean getting out of here then I'll help you"

I try to think of something to say. I've got nothing.

"Hey puppy I think dinner is gonna be ready soon."

He pouts "Hmph."

"What don't you want dinner?"

"I mean yeah" he sighs and stands up.

We sit at the table and eat in silence. A couple of times Henry's leg bumps into mine. I finish my food as quickly as possible.

"I'm gonna be in my room. You know where to find me Henry" I head to my room and flop on my bed.

"Hey pat." He smiles softly as he enters the room "your parents don't shut up. God I thought I was gonna die back there. They kept asking about your neck."

"What's wrong with my neck?" I ask

"I um I bit you" he mutters

"Oh god they aren't going to let this go." I mutter.

He laughs "oh you poor soul."

"Shut up this is your fault!" I pout.

"No it's not. You didn't stop me. It's your fault." He smirks.

I hug him. "I love you. You idiot."

He hugs back. "Thank you…" he smiles "Thank you for everything Patrick."

I softly kiss him.

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tran5rightsos · 4 years

Text

You’ve Cut the Wrong Damn Wire - Chapter Eleven

Tags and Warnings: Homophobia, Homophobic Violence, Implied/Reference Sexual Abuse

Word Count: 2763

Leave Kudos?

The next time Ashton had to go, it felt like routine, like a comfortable and familiar part of their relationship. Calum didn’t stay with Luke this time because Michael’s nan was getting sicker and they needed space, but he didn’t mind spending a few nights alone.

Of course, his absence at work meant that Calum was doing more and staying back later, but at least he was getting paid more for it. Winter was close, so it was always dark by the time he was done cleaning, but that didn’t worry him until the night Ashton got home.

He was in a good mood, elated at the prospect of going home to his boyfriend. As he closed up, he noticed three men down the alley. It didn’t bother him at first, not until he was making his way to the carpark and he realised they were following him.

Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were parked nearby and didn’t give a shit about Calum. He tried to relax, only really feeling it when he reached his motorbike and put on his helmet. His tension quickly returned when someone spoke.

“You Hood’s kid?”

Calum turned to find the men standing just a few metres away, their body language setting off alarm bells in his head. He recognised them. Friends of his dad’s. He tried to look unfazed, but no amount of staring down was going to make him look less outnumbered.

“Yeah.” He hoped to god it was the right answer.

“The fag?”

Shit.

“No-”

“Yeah you are.” The man stepped closer. “I’ve seen you with Ethan’s brother and those other fags.”

Hopefully the rising panic wasn’t showing on his face. His brain was a whirlwind as he searched for ways to turn the conversation away from the direction it was going but came up with nothing.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he tried.

“Should’ve thought of that before you decided to be a cocksucker.”

Calum would have liked to say that he bravely fought them off and got away bruised but victorious, but it was three against one and he went down quickly once someone had yanked off his helmet and tossed it away. As he shielded his face from their boots, he felt a cold sense of inevitability creep over him. Of course this was always going to happen. Part of him had known it from the moment his dad kicked him out. People fucking hated him for what he was.

Eventually, the kicks stopped coming and Calum vaguely registered voices. He curled up tighter when he felt hands pulling at his arms, but looked up when he realised he recognised the voice saying his name.

In the low light, Luke looked terrified. “Can you walk?”

Calum grunted and spat blood onto the bitumen, wincing when he tried to put pressure on his wrist to push himself off the ground. Luke helped him into a sitting position, radiating worry and fear.

“You okay?” Michael asked as he approached, folding and pocketing a large knife.

“‘M alive,” Calum answered through the blood in his mouth. He spat it out and his tongue hurt. He must have bitten it.

Michael and Luke pulled him to his feet and he frowned at his motorbike. Someone had pushed it over. He tried to resist as they started walking away, but everything hurt too much to really fight.

“My motorbike,” he protested.

“We’ll call someone to get it,” Michael promised.

Luke sat with him in the backseat of Michael’s car, taking out his phone to text someone as Michael got in the front seat and started the engine.

“Britney’s gonna pick up your bike,” Luke eventually told Calum.

Calum grunted an acknowledgement, too exhausted to say much else. He watched the lights go by as they drove, trying to think about anything other than what happened. His weak plan to put it out of his mind and just forget it all failed spectacularly when they reached a hospital and he had to tell them what happened, though he carefully kept the reason out.

He realised his wallet was gone when they asked about a Medicare card and that ended up being what toppled his careful numbness. Rage boiled under his skin as nurses looked him over, cleaning wounds and shining lights in his eyes. Who the fuck did those guys think they were?

“You wanna call Ashton?” Michael asked.

Calum shook his head, the thought of how he’d worry taking the edge off his anger. The time he’d come home late after hanging out with Luke pushed into his mind and he remembered how worried Ashton had been that something had happened to him. This time, something actually had.

Several x-rays later, they told him there were no fractures and he was lucky there wasn’t any permanent damage, particularly around his swollen eye. Calum mulled that word over. Lucky. He knew they were right, it could have been much worse, but it was still a weird thought. He didn’t feel lucky.

At Calum’s request, they went back to Michael and Luke’s. He couldn’t face Ashton like this. Not right now. He still didn’t even know what to say to him. On the way there, he told him he’d decided to stay with them for the night. He knew it was too much to hope that it would be enough, but he still groaned when Ashton asked why.

As he racked his mind for an answer, Calum started crying and hated every tear, hated knowing that it was exactly what they wanted, that they wanted him to feel weak and hurt and afraid. Luke put a careful arm around him and Calum welcomed the embrace, turning to cry into his shirt. Thank god Ashton wasn’t here to see this.

Unfortunately, he was waiting for them when they pulled up. Michael got out to greet him while Calum attempted to dry his eyes, knowing that it was futile but desperate to put on a brave face for Ashton.

When he finally got out, his blood ran cold.

Michael had his hands up defensively, as if he was trying to talk Ashton down, and Ashton was pressing the tip of a knife to the skin below his ear, his eyes cold.

“Ash?” Calum croaked, throat tight from his sob fest.

Ashton’s eyes flickered to him and he pulled the knife away enough for Michael to step back. He watched Michael’s retreat like a hawk as he folded away about two inches of blade. Vaguely, Calum thought it was funny to find out Ashton and Michael both kept huge scary knives on their persons on the same night. Apparently they had a lot in common.

“What happened?” Ashton demanded.

Calum stepped towards him. “It’s okay, I-” A hand on his wrist stopped him. He looked back at Luke and saw terror in his eyes.

Nobody said a word as Calum glanced around at them all.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asked as his eyes fell on Ashton.

“Maybe we should go inside,” Michael suggested.

“No,” Ashton snapped, “I’m taking him home.”

“Ash…”

Ashton’s gaze softened when he looked at Calum.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Calum implored, “Please.”

Ashton nodded. “I’ll explain when we get home.”

“No. Tell me now.”

“Calum…” Luke fretted.

“Why are you so scared of him?” Calum asked Luke, though the question did feel somewhat silly now that Ashton had actually proven himself capable of being fucking scary.

“I really think we should discuss this inside,” Michael said.

“No,” Ashton repeated.

“Yes.” Calum looked Ashton in the eye. “I’m fucking exhausted and I’m not leaving until I know what everyone’s fucking problem is.”

Ashton gave Michael a hateful look. “Fine.”

Luke kept throwing nervous glances back at Ashton as he and Michael led them inside. Michael showed them to the lounge room, giving Ashton a long look before heading to the kitchen with Luke.

Calum fell to the couch, weariness nagging at his bones. Ashton sat beside him and looked him over, worry in his eyes.

“What happened?” he asked softly, tilting Calum’s face with his fingertips to get a look at his black eye.

“Some of my dad’s friends,” Calum reluctantly mumbled, “They recognised me after work.”

Anger flashed in Ashton’s eyes, but he looked up as Luke came in with a bag of peas wrapped in a teatowel. He avoided returning Ashton’s gaze as he handed it to Calum and stepped back.

“So what’s going on between you guys?” Calum asked once Michael had joined them in the lounge room.

Michael gave Ashton a pointed look. “You wanna be the one to break it to him?”

Calum looked at Ashton expectantly.

“Michael kills people,” Ashton said.

Michael scoffed. “So do you.”

Calum stared, blood rushing in his ears. “What do you mean?”

Ashton glared at Michael. “He’s a serial killer.”

“So are you.”

“Wait, as in…” Calum took a deep breath. “This is a bad joke.”

“It’s not a joke,” Ashton told him, “That’s why I keep asking you to stay away from him.”

Calum squeezed his eyes shut. “You kill people?”

Ashton tried to touch his shoulder, but he shook him off. “Only bad people. Rapists.”

“Why?”

“I need to. I get cold. It’s the only thing that helps.”

“You…” Calum’s head snapped up. “Wait. Is that what…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“That’s what I do when I leave,” Ashton confirmed.

Calum stared at him. “You killed someone? When you were gone?”

Ashton looked pained. “He was just a rapist.”

“When did you do it?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” Calum repeated. He looked up at Michael. “And you knew.”

Michael looked hesitant. “I didn’t know he was picky, like us. That’s why we keep worrying about you. We thought he might kill you.”

Luke looked uncomfortable.

“What’ve you got to do with this?” Calum asked him, “Are you a fucking serial killer too?”

“I’m sorry,” Luke whispered.

“You really threw me off, to be honest,” Ashton said, eyeing Luke down, “I thought it was Michael at first, but you killed Ethan, didn’t you?”

It didn’t feel like a question. Calum looked at Luke, who refused to meet anyone’s eye and looked like he wanted to hide behind Michael.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Ethan got what was coming to him,” Michael snapped, wrapping an arm around Luke, “The only reason he didn’t deserve it was because nothing could be enough to pay for what he put Luke through.”

The puzzle pieces clicked together.

“Ethan did that to you? I thought it was Phil.”

Luke frowned at the ground.

“Phil let it happen,” Michael bit, “He knew about everything and pretended his son wasn’t a fucking monster. He just got wasted every night and acted like none of it was his fault.”

“I went there when we got back,” Luke said softly, “The rock I did it with is still there.”

Calum exhaled and looked around at everyone. What the fuck was he supposed to say? He was way too tired for this.

“Are you mad at me?”

He barely heard Luke’s quiet question.

“No, I-” He ran his hand through his hair. “What happens now?”

“You leave us alone,” Ashton told Michael.

“Stop it,” Calum said tiredly. He huffed a wry laugh. “You two hate each other a lot considering how much you have in common.”

“I won’t let him touch you,” Ashton told him.

“I’m not gonna lay a finger on him,” Michael replied, “You’re the dangerous one here.”

Ashton glared and took Calum’s hand. “Are we done? Calum needs to rest.”

Calum withdrew his hand. “I don’t…”

Ashton frowned.

“I’m sorry, I just…” He sighed. “You kill people.”

“I’d never hurt you,” Ashton murmured, his expression genuine.

Calum looked away. “I wanna stay here tonight. Is that okay?” he asked Luke.

Luke nodded, eyes flickering to Ashton nervously.

Ashton nodded understandingly, looking hurt. “I’ll stay too, then. In case something happens.”

“I’m not gonna kill him,” Michael sighed in exasperation.

“I’m gonna shower,” Calum interjected before Ashton could reply.

Every bone in his body ached and there was only so much the hot water could do to soothe it. Ugly bruises were forming everywhere, staining his skin as he scrubbed away sweat, dirt and blood.

A soft knock came at the door as he pondered putting his dirty clothes back on.

“I have some clothes,” Luke called.

Calum opened the door to take them, not looking Luke in the eye. Did he even know him anymore?

Luke was waiting on the bed when he came out, the clean clothes making him feel marginally better.

“Is it okay if I stay with you?” Luke asked nervously.

Calum nodded. He’d feel like a real dickhead if he kicked Luke out of his own bed. Besides, he needed someone and despite what he’d just learned about him, he still found Luke’s presence comforting.

“Do you … need to kill people like Ashton does?” Calum asked as they laid in the darkness.

“It was just Ethan at first,” Luke said softly, “I was just so scared. I told him I was leaving with Michael and he said he’d find me. Hurt me so bad I’d wish I was dead.”

Calum pulled him to his chest, heart aching at the thought of Luke being so afraid. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Anyway, sometimes I help Michael. It makes me feel … safe, I guess.”

It was almost so faint he could have imagined it, but when Michael or Ashton said something just loud enough for them to hear, Calum felt Luke’s pulse speed up.

“Why does Michael do it?” he asked, hoping to distract him from the raised voices.

“He hates rapists. He wants to help people by killing every one he finds.”

“Fair enough.”

Luke breathed a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Does he scare you?”

“Nah. He’d never hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it.”

Calum considered that. His sense of morality had been taking some serious hits lately. At first glance, of course he believed rapists should be punished, but in actual fact Ashton, Michael and Luke killed people. They were killers. Surely that had to damage them somehow.

As Luke drifted off and Calum remembered his nightmare, it occurred to him that they were already damaged.

#au: wire #5sos fic #my fic

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inkstaineddaughter · 4 years

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Soft Drop Chapter 9: Mornings and In Betweens

Charlie/Reader

Light fluff, SMUUUT!

3k words

It’s been an uncomfortable night. A sleepless, hotel room night. Your shoulder is stiff and the light that shines around the shades and through your eyelids is even a different color than what you’re used to at home. Charlie is curled up behind you, the big spoon, pressed head-to-foot against you. His arm is draped over your middle and you can feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes. In the wide bed and the unfamiliar morning sunlight, you allow yourself think how incredibly right everything seems. As you shift under the weight of his arm and Charlie snuffles behind you, you also feel the hardness that presses into your back. “Charlie?” you whisper, pushing against him the slightest bit. “Is that your penis?”

“Sorry,” he groans as he pulls his arm from around you. “Happens in the mornings sometimes. Here, I’ll turn over.” He starts to move and the idea of losing that closeness makes your heart jump into your throat. “No, don’t go!” You reach behind you; fingers gripping the fabric of his pajama pants and hold him in place. This all has to come to an end at some point, but there has to be time still for more.

“Actually, wait,” you say as you make up your mind. “Roll over onto your back.” Charlie snakes his arm back around you and rolls you over with him and it feels warm and soft, cuddled up to him like this. Too warm. He sighs as you run your hand over his chest. Your thumb snagging in the t-shirt’s wrinkles as you pass your palm over his nipples. Which harden satisfyingly under your touch.

You both silently watch your hand’s progress down his chest and stomach, pausing occasionally to pull up on his shirt or push down on the blankets. “Are you serious?” Charlie breathes as your hand slips under the waistband of his pants. “What?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around him. Goddammit! Goddammit, he feels good! “Doesn’t every guy want to get his dick sucked as he watches the sun come up?”

“Oh, fuck.” Charlie squeezes his eyes shut as his head falls onto the pillow. But he peeks back up as you begin to move your hand from the base of his cock slowly up to the head. “Hey, (Y/N)?” he stammers. “I know I keep asking you these awkward questions, but are you usually this…. insatiable?”

“Honestly, no,” you answer, looking into his eyes but keeping a hand on his cock. And you think back over past partners and relationships. “But Charlie, I’ve never wanted anyone like this!” It feels a little scary, saying it out loud and makes you feel stupidly vulnerable. Is it going to make him jump through the window and take off running as soon as he hits the pavement? You’re not sure if anything would surprise you at this point. But Charlie gives you a look that’s more sympathy than panic. “I get it,” he says, nodding. “Like, there’s just no way to get enough of the other person. And it feels like there never will be. Addicting.”

Of course, he gets it. You smile fondly at him before turning your attention back to the task at hand and working his pants down over his hips. You don’t even bother trying to stifle your moan as you free his cock. And again, you marvel at just how attractive it is! Long and thick but not to the point of being grotesque. Flushed red and curving up toward his belly button, with a nice roadmap of veins and one perfect pearl of precum gleaming at the tip.

“Oh, I love this thing!” you sigh as you give it a few quick strokes. You want so badly to worship him! Take your time and spoil his beautiful dick with feathery kisses and long slow licks until he’s squirming and sobbing underneath you. He deserves all that.

But you have needs too. And right now, you need to feel that thing halfway down to your stomach. You cast Charlie one last apologetic look, before you open wide and sink your mouth down over him, taking him in as far as he will go. All the way down in one steady motion until you can feel your throat as it squeezes around his cock and your nose as it presses into his pubic bone. Oh, that’s so much better, having him in your mouth like this. “Oh, fuck, (Y/N),” he growls as he pushes his fingers through your hair. “Fuck, why wasn’t this dick in your mouth 10 years ago?”

“Who cares?” you snap as you pull off him. “Just shove it back in there and stop dwelling on the past!” Well, you’re quite the little whore this morning, aren’t you, with your dirty talk? But Charlie is smart enough to follow orders and, keeping one hand on the back of your head, he grips the base of his cock with the other and guides it back into you and where it belongs. Good God, why weren’t the two of you doing this 10 years ago?! You could have been sucking him off in the booth instead of taking a nap up there. You could have been swallowing his cum in one the bathrooms in Bobst every day.

It's still early, but you could conceivably do this all morning. Last night, you marveled over how perfectly he fit in your pussy, but this is almost better. And it wasn’t that long ago that he was in your pussy, making you spasm around him as he filled you to overflowing with his cum. He fits just as well in the morning, slides all the way in just as easily. And you know already that you don’t ever want this to stop.

You imagine that you can still taste yourself on him, your own juices mixed with his sweat, mingling with the musky scent of pubic hair. The way it smells and how the curls tickle the tip of your nose as you bob your head up and down his length. Then all the way down. Then not quite all the way up, sucking gently on the head of Charlie’s cock, the tip of your tongue pressed into the frenulum.

When you pull off to give your jaw a brief rest, you continue to jerk him wetly. Watching the red and swollen head of his cock emerge and disappear back into your fist with a delicious plek, plek, pleck sound is mesmerizing. And when Charlie runs his fingers over your forehead and groans, “God, you’re good at this!” he sighs. “And so fucking pretty! Look at you!” You’re not exactly in the habit of watching yourself go down on guys and had never really given much thought to whether or not you look porn-star perfect. You’re more of a task-oriented girl. But when Charlie tells you that you’re pretty, with your rumpled, too-big shirt, swollen lips and 1 hour of sleep eye bags, you know he’s telling the truth. You are fucking gorgeous! And you smile and you adore him and his hand is shaking as he touches you.

You dive back down onto him, spearing his cock down your throat. And the way he says your name would have made you smile even harder if your mouth wasn’t so full of him. Charlie grunts as he involuntarily thrusts his hips up into you, then chokes out a “Shit! I’m sorry.” You look up and lock eyes with him, raising your eyebrows and granting him permission. The feeling of him rolling his hips against your face to get just a little bit deeper, to find just a little more friction, it’s obscene! Your entire pussy is throbbing and your clit feels like it’s on fire. It’s obscene, but it’s divine, almost holy and so, so right!

It takes a minute until you’ve found the perfect rhythm, moving together and meeting each other in the middle. Up and down and in and out, twisting your hand at the base of his cock, squeezing your throat around him as he dips down into your pharynx. You keep him like that for a few moments, pushed in a far as he’ll go. With your mouth stretched wide around him, you imagine that you can feel him all the way down into your belly. Just like you could almost feel him all the way up there when he’d fucked you so hard last night. In addition to so many other attributes, Charlie Barber has an incredible dick!

“S-sweetheart?” he croaks. “God! Honey? I’m about to… oh, fuck, fuck!” You feel his gigantic hands clutching at your shoulders, giving you a warning, a chance to avoid the inevitable. Bless you Charlie, but you’re a ride-or-die cocksucker. You slide up his length, keeping the head held loosely between your lips, your tongue flicking in and out of his slit. And you scowl. Charlie’s sits propped up on one elbow. His eyes are wide and shiny, his mouth hanging open. You take in his pink cheeks and wild hair. And shake your head quickly. “Oh, please!” It sounds like a prayer as you sink your mouth down onto him, taking him easily back down into your throat. Above you, you hear the sound of him collapsing back onto the bed. And you hum as the motion briefly pushes him deeper.

You’re almost ready to abandon his pleasure at this point and focus solely on your own. And if you end up coming before him, just from this, then that’s the icing on the cake. Because this! This is the fucking cake. Surely nothing could ever feel as good as this! You slide up and down his length several more times, building speed and sucking hard until you hear his breath catch and feel his cock swell inside you. And that’s it! That’s it! You slam down onto him, taking him down as far as he’ll go. Your lips are pressed flush against him as you swallowswallowswallow! You reach down and squeeze his balls, urging him to empty them into your belly. Breathing hard through your nose. My God, are you really doing this? Are you actually sucking Charlie’s dick?! You are and it’s so fucking HOT! A few more minutes of this and you would have come yourself!

“Holy fuck!” Charlie pants as you pull off him and sit up. You should be flattered at his reaction, but the truth is you’re so turned on now, you could cry. “You swallow!” he sounds completely disbelieving and almost… grateful? What the hell did Nicole do, then? Leave the room so he could finish himself? Or just never give him head at all?

“It’s just courtesy,” you whimper, shifting your hips against the bed, seeking out some kind of friction. “If I care enough about a guy to have his cock in my mouth,” you bite your lip and inhale sharply through your nose. Did you have to say that? “Then I care enough to swallow his cum!” You last word ends on a plaintive whine and Charlie peers down at you, looking concerned. He must notice the growing wet spot between your legs. Then his eyes widen and he gasps in realization. “Shit, I’m sorry, honey! Here, come here.” He helps you lie down and moves between your legs.

You’re practically clawing at him as he yanks over the soaked crotch of your too-big shorts and you hear him gasp. Your cunt is swollen and pulsing and you’re honest-to-God flowing for him! You only need to say one word, “Charlie.” And he’s scooping up your slick and applying the prefect amount (God, how is it perfect?) of pressure to your clit.

Your orgasm slams into you suddenly with the force of an atom bomb. Unable to make any sound or even breathe, you lift your hips off the bed and twist your fingers into the sheet beneath you. “Oh, shit!” Charlie’s voice stutters and cracks and his thumb keeps circling your clit and it all feels endless! You continue to ride out the waves as you explode over his hand, spraying his wrist with your cum and soaking the clean bedding. “Make a mess, sweetheart!” he grunts under his breath. “That’s it.”

He shoves two wet fingers into you and feels how your cunt contracts around him like your throat had just done. “Fuck yeah!” Charlie groans. You feel him press into your g-spot as you’re coming and coming, grinding and fucking yourself on his fingers. “Keep squeezing that pussy on my fingers, Baby,” Charlie urges. “God, you’re so fucking tight!”

“Fuuuuck!” you wail as the pleasure begins to ebb. Charlie rubs one hand soothingly over your stomach as you sink back down, still shaking, onto the mattress.

You press your fist against your mouth to keep from making any less coherent or more obscene sounds. As you catch your breath (Christ, you’ve never fucking come like that!), Charlie continues staring at you, at your stretched-out shorts and dripping thighs. And a small hysterical laugh rises in your throat.

“Oh my God, Baby!” Charlie whines as he looks down at you. “Fuck! Jesus Christ.”

“Are you having a stroke?” you giggle. “Speaking in tongues?”

“Yeah, tongues,” Charlie, answers, his hand still on you. “I have never…” he shakes his head. “Not like that!”

If you look at the ceiling and not his face, you won’t start crying. “Yeah, I know,” you whisper. And not with anyone. Not the high school infatuation, not the smattering of long-term relationships or the what-the-fuck fucks in between. Even your favorite vibrator has never made you feel this good. Or this loved. Or this guilty. God, not even Mariah Carey felt emotions like this!

Charlie rubs his hand on his forehead and you wonder if he remembers your cum that’s all over his fingers. “Do you want to take another shower?” he asks abruptly. “With me this time?” And that actually sounds really, really lovely and you realize that you’re cold and sticky. “Yeah,” you nod. “I’m starting to feel less sexy and more just gross.” Ever the gentleman, Charlie helps you up from the bed. “You could never be less sexy.” He shakes his head. “I’ll get your clean clothes,” he promises. “Meet me in there?”

It’s a standard bathtub sized shower. Roomy enough for two people to fit as long as they don’t attempt any sexy shenanigans. Or any kind of advanced bathing. But you don’t seem interested in either. Just a quick rinse of the bodily fluids, and there’s nothing left but the warmth of the water and the nearness of each other. You play a game of connect the dots with the moles and freckles on Charlie’s chest, but can’t picture what sort of constellation they form. He tilts your head back with his enormous hands, letting the water flow over your hair while he kisses your neck. Your nipples are hard, pebbled up tight as they brush against him. Water drips from the tip of Charlie’s semi hard cock as his thumbs trace the veins inside your elbows. Your toes bump against his and you breathe the same steamy air. He rests his chin on the top of your head.

After you’re dressed in clean clothes with brushed hair and another load of laundry is going, Charlie has one more offer. “Breakfast?” You shrug. It’s a respectable breakfast hour by now and the café on the next block has pancakes that are truly worth dying for. You walk together, but not together. No handholding or deep, loving looks, lest some morning commuter sees you and broadcasts it over the airwaves, dropping script pages with a Mid-Atlantic accent. You don’t even walk arm-in-arm, dodging tourists and taxis like you used to. Nothing is different outside of the living room or the wide bed. An early breakfast with an old friend.

The only difference is the small dark stone of guilt that had begun forming inside you is already starting to crack, letting narrow shafts of light in. And underneath all the howling shame and fear is a steady beat, a certainty you’ve never known before. And when Charlie taps your arm at the intersection, breaking your reverie and pointing to the light. You step off the edge with him toward the same destination. Green light, go.

#Writing #Ew my fic #Soft Drop #Charlie/Reader #Charlie/OC #Flashback for sexytimes

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