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cinnxmxngxrl · 13 days ago

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“Letters”

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

part five of Camden’s sin but can be read as a stand alone

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to see the previous parts

Summary: Oopsies! Alfie sent you another one of his filthy letters, but this time it’s your brother Tommy the one who finds it.

WC: 5,4k

Warnings: intense smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, oral(f!receiving), fingering, dirty talk, breeding kink, creampie, cum fucking, slight choking, reader is Tommy Shelby’s sister

My girl,

Right. Now listen, love, I’m writin’ this with me cock on me hand, and I’m only doin’ it this ‘cause I’m tryin’ not to lose my fuckin’ mind without you. Yeah? Not sleepin’. Not eatin’ proper. Can’t think straight. Every time I close my eyes, I see your thighs spread for me—your mouth open, moanin’ my name like a fuckin’ prayer I don’t deserve.

It’s torture, innit? Bein’ away from you. Got this ache in my chest and cock both, and neither one of ‘em settles unless I’ve got you under me, around me, on top of me—fuckin’ devourin’ me with that needy little body.

You know what I do when I get in bed, don’t you? I close my eyes and wrap my fist around my cock, thinkin’ about how you sound when I make you cum. I can still feel the way you shake when I’ve got my face buried between your thighs, tongue workin’ that sweet cunt till you’re cryin’. You’re such a good girl for me, always so wet, so ready… makes me wanna ruin you again and again, just to watch you break.

I miss the way you ride me, like you own me. Like you know I’d fuckin’ die for you and live for you in the same breath. I miss your voice all breathy and desperate beggin’ me to keep goin’, even when your legs are shakin’, when I’ve already made you cum twice and you’re sayin’ you can’t take another. You always take it, though, don’t you? You know no one else can make you sob and squirt all over the sheets like I do, beggin’ me to stop while your greedy cunt keeps suckin’ me back in.

And I miss lookin’ at your belly after, all swollen and full of me, my cum drippin’ out your cunt, markin’ you proper. That’s the way I like it. That’s the way I need it.

I need you, treacle. Not just your body. I need your voice in my ear, your nails in my skin, your breath on my neck when I’m losin’ myself in you. Come back to me soon, yeah? I want you with no clothes. On your knees. Mouth open.

Because I’m gonna fuck that filthy little throat raw first, yeah, then bend you over every surface in my fuckin’ house until I’ve bred you proper.

If you don’t come back soon I swear to fuck I’ll come get you myself, toss you over my shoulder like a caveman and drag you back to my bed where you fuckin’ belong.

Be good. Or don’t. I’ll punish you either way.

Yours. Always.

—Alfie

That was one of the many letters Alfie had written for you. One of the many dirty ones you used to receive from him every week. They all said pretty much the same things, how much he missed you, how many times he had wanked thinking of you, and a depraved description of what he was planning to do to you next time he sees you. He was insane, completely deranged, and you absolutely loved it.

Filthy, poetic madness on thick parchment, scrawled in his unmistakable hand. Each one was a fever dream of obsession and filth—every sentence soaked in hunger, rage, and a need so primal it barely felt human. You’d press them to your chest after reading, skin prickling with heat, thighs already slick.

He usually sent one of his men to your house, had him waiting outside till it was only you home, and then he’d slide the letter in the letterbox of your door.

You knew the sound it made by heart—the soft metallic flap, the faint thud as it landed on the floor—and every time, your heart leapt. You’d run like a girl chasing candy, excited to read another of Alfie’s dirty poetries. Each one more obscene than the last, more unhinged, more possessive—his version of love letters soaked in lust and violence and reverence.

But this time Alfie’s man fucked up, ‘cause you weren’t home alone when he slid that letter in your house.

You didn’t hear the flap of the letterbox. You didn’t hear anything—because you were upstairs, humming quietly in your room, entirely unaware that your world was about to crack open like glass under a boot.

Tommy was home, and he was the one who found it. He heard the metal clatter, the letter hitting the floor like a challenge.

And then he read, there, under the wax seal, the inscription:

To: Miss Shelby.

My Girl. Mine. Not Yours.

He frowned. It was odd—letters didn’t usually come addressed to you, not without his knowing. Suspicion bloomed in his gut like rot.

He ripped the envelope quickly and read the letter.

MY GIRL (yeah that’s fuckin you, innit)

I ain’t fuckin slept.

I can’t stop fuckin thinkin about you, about how I fucked you against my walls, in my kitchen, how you fuckin sobbed on my cock, begged for me to give it to you harder.

Every time I close me fuckin’ eyes I see you bouncin’ on me cock, tits bared, mouth all open like a filthy little angel.

I can still fuckin’ taste you in my tongue, still fuckin smell you, love. Can still feel your cunt squeezin me cock, beggin for more.

Woke up this mornin’ hard as a fuckin brick, ready to drag you back to my bed and fuck you until you cry again.

Don’t think for a second I’ve forgotten how tight that pussy felt last time I had you bent over my desk. You came so fuckin’ much, I thought you’d pass out. You made a mess all over my papers.

You’re fuckin mine. D’you understand that? Proper fuckin MINE. No man touches you. No man looks at you. I’ll slit fuckin throats for less. Say it out loud, even if you’re not alone. Say: “I’m Alfie’s filthy girl.”

Want you back here. Want you on your knees, with me feedin’ you my cock. Want you bent over my desk again—my face buried between your legs while I lick you open real slow, tastin’ every fuckin’ drop you’ve been savin’ for me. Then I’m gonna fuck the filthy outta you, split you open on my cock ’til you can’t walk. My cum drippin’ outta that sweet little cunt of yours like it fuckin’ belongs there.

I’ll fuck you so deep you won’t be able to think of anythin’ but my name. Gonna keep you so full you won’t even fuckin’ know where I end and you begin.

Maybe I’ll make you read this letter out loud to me while you ride me. Think about that, yeah?

And listen, don’t even fuckin’ think about touchin’ yourself without me there to see it, right? That cunt stays empty till I fill it again.

Write me back. Tell me when you’re comin’.

If not I’ll come fuckin’ get you, and I won’t be nice.

— Alfie

Tommy’s face twisted—disbelief, disgust, and something darker—as he read the filth scrawled across the page. He couldn’t believe all those words had been written to you, but he didn’t need to reach the signature to know who wrote them. No one else could string together that level of obscenity with such pride. It could only be Alfie Solomons.

The ink might as well have been blood. Every sentence clawed at his sense of control, dragged filth through the sanctity of his home. Your name, tangled with language so foul it made even him, a war-hardened man, flinch.

He stared at the letter, his cheeks flaming in anger, jaw flexed so hard that he was close to breaking it, his fists closed with anger, knuckles white from the pressure, trying not to punch the wall right now. He breathed like a man trying to contain an explosion, nostrils flaring, lips pressed into a thin line. The muscles in his temple ticked violently.

For a long moment, he just sat there—jaw clenched, chest heaving—the room silent but for the slow hiss of his cigarette burning itself out. Then went to pour himself a whiskey — even though it wasn’t even noon. The smoke curled up around his face like a noose, the ash dropping onto the table as his eyes burned holes through the letter in his hand.

Tommy yelled your name, and a moment later, you’d made your way from your room to the first floor. The sound of his voice—sharp, guttural—sent a chill through you. There was something in the tone that made your feet falter halfway down the stairs.

He stared at you, long, slow, and something dangerous flickered behind those ice-blue eyes. The kind of look that made lesser men piss themselves. A look forged in war, in blood, in years of control stretched razor-thin.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck this is?” he said, voice low and deadly. Controlled. The kind that made men freeze mid-breath.

“Looks like a letter, Tommy,” you said teasingly, completely oblivious to what the content of the letter was.

You smiled, just a little, thinking it might be a business message. Maybe even something dull. But then you saw his expression. That wasn’t business fury—that was betrayal.

Tommy took two steps forward—slow, deliberate—and shoved the crumpled telegram against your chest.

As soon as you saw Alfie’s handwriting, you felt your cheeks lighting like they were on fire. You could hear your heart beating loud in your ears. Panic took over you. That was it. You were busted. Your luck had to run out at some point. What were you supposed to say to make this whole situation better? To make Tommy less angry?

Tommy swore under his breath, turning away—raking a hand through his hair, pacing. He didn’t even look at you, and seeing him so ashamed of you shattered something in your heart. The disappointment radiated off him in waves. You’d never seen your brother look so wounded—so betrayed—as if you’d taken a knife to the family crest.

“You fuckin’ him?” he asked bluntly.

“Tommy, it’s no—” you tried to say.

“You’re fuckin’ him,” he affirmed, didn’t need to hear you admit it, he already knew the answer. He let out an ironic chuckle, full of venom. “How could you? I had you pegged for clever.”

“Tommy, you need to understand that I was going to tell you, but—”

He cut you again. He wasn’t listening. He was too far gone—rage and loyalty and the old Shelby bloodlust bubbling up. You could see it in the tightness of his fists, the trembling of his shoulders. You’d awakened something brutal.

“You like this?” He said as he took the letter from your hands, holding it with disgust. “You let this animal say things like that to you? You like that he talks to you like you’re somethin’ he bought off a street corner?”

You didn’t even know what to say, how to justify yourself. Everything you said seemed to make him even angrier. He wouldn’t understand what Alfie meant to you, what you two had. Alfie’s words weren’t insults to you—they were scripture. They made you feel seen, desired and loved in his own twisted and fucked-up way. But trying to explain that to Tommy felt impossible.

“My own sister… Alfie Solomons’ whore. All this time I thought you were doing business but you were just fuckin’ him instead,” he chuckled again with anger. “Deals came easy, didn’t they? ’Cause his cock was in your mouth.”

“I never did it for the deals”

“You think he loves you?” Tommy said, voice quieter now.

“Yes, I know he does,” you said without hesitation. “In his way.”

“You’re bloody stupid if you really believe that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what he has done to this family.”

You could see the weight of the past in his eyes—betrayals, broken deals, threats.

“But you still do business with him anyway!” you spat.

“Doing business and fuckin’ him are two very different fuckin’ things,” his voice low and dangerous.

“I know, the latter is a much more entertaining one,” you said it without thinking, instantly regretting it.

The moment it left your lips, the air changed—thick, electric, on the verge of eruption.

You saw how his look shifted, pure anger behind his eyes. He was trying hard not to grab you and slap some sense into you. His hand landed instead against the wall, a hard punch that left his knuckles bloodied and a hole splintered into the plaster. The sound of the impact echoed like a gunshot. You flinched, heart leaping into your throat as you stared at the broken plaster and the red dripping from his hand.

“You stay away,” he said. “Or I’ll burn his whole fuckin’ business to the ground. With him inside. And if he crawls out like the rat he is, then I’ll put a bullet straight through his skull.”

“Tommy, please,” you said. “You know that you can’t. You know that nothing you do will stop him.”

He scoffed. “You don’t understand how bloody dangerous this is. Alfie… he’ll sell you off same as he’d sell anyone—if the price is right. What d’you think will happen when he gets bored of you?”

His words were a warning, but also a plea. A desperate attempt to pull you out before the flames got higher.

He chuckles to himself, mocking you. “Oh, right… you’ve not thought it through, have you? Think he’s gonna marry you, do you? Settle down—couple of kids, little dog in the garden?”

“You have no idea of what we have, Thomas.”

“No. But I know Alfie. He’s unstable, can’t be trusted— fuckin’ dangerous, for Christ’s sake.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I’m sayin’ this once—just once. Stay the fuck away from him.”

“You don’t give me orders anymore, Thomas. I’m not a child, and I might work for you, but I’m not a pawn in your twisted games,” you said defiantly. “You’re gonna have to deal with it, whether you like it or not.”

The words surprised even you—sharp, hot, defiant. They cracked through the room like thunder, final and irreversible. Your heart was beating so fast that you felt it might escape your chest. It was the first time you’d ever defied your brother, the moment where you finally stood up for yourself, for what you wanted.

“You’re not a child, but you’re still a Shelby,” he grunted. “Tell Alfie to watch his back,” he said dangerously as he walked off, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled.

And just like that, he was gone—leaving behind a broken wall, his blood on the floor, and a silence so loud it roared in your ears.

In this moment all you needed was to see Alfie. To be in his arms. For him to tell you everything would be alright. To disappear into the safety of his rough embrace, to drown out the storm inside your chest with the low sound of his voice. You were unraveling, aching for the only man who had ever made you feel like more than a weapon, more than a Shelby.

Tommy’s words still hung in the air like smoke — bitter, burning the back of your throat. You stood there, your chest rising and falling, fingers trembling slightly as you reached up and smoothed your hair back. Your heart was still racing, but not from fear. Not anymore. You weren’t going to cry. You wouldn’t give him that.

Every step you took on the way to Camden felt like defiance. Like a declaration. Like a war drum. Like choosing Alfie meant choosing yourself, too.

A few hours later you were arriving at Alfie’s place, a house that had become in the last months more of a home than your real home ever was. Each window and creaking floorboard remembered you. Each shadow whispered your name.

You didn’t knock on his door. Not anymore. You used the spare key he’d given you some time ago.

Alfie was sitting on the couch in the living room with a glass in his hand, sleeves rolled up, tattoos crawling out from under the cuffs like something alive. His head tilted when he saw you, beard twitching around a grin he hadn’t earned yet.

“Well now, what’s this then?” he rasped, voice warm with amusement and whisky. “Got my bloody letter and couldn’t fuckin’ wait, eh? Little needy thing. Couldn’t wait to get your hands on me cock, is that it?”

“Alfie.” Your face was serious, you didn’t even know where to begin with—Your voice cracked, and you hated that it did. But the pressure had been building, and now it threatened to spill.

“Oi, don’t go rushin’ me now, right? You know I always deliver,” Alfie said with a crooked smile spreading wider across his face.

The casual promise in his voice cut through you, because right now, you needed more than his cock. You needed him. You needed everything.

“It’s not that, Alfie. It’s…” You paced, jaw tight. Your hands were trembling, not with fear, but with adrenaline, fury, lust, everything. “Tommy found the letter.”

“Tommy what?” he slammed the glass on the table. “Right, okay, no, I told that stupid fucker—told him—to wait until you were alone, right? Alone, not in there with your bloody warlord of a brother.” The table rattled under the impact, and your pulse jumped with it.

“Alfie, that’s not the point!”

“I’ll gut him… fuckin’ Tommy, who the fuck gave him the right—the audacity, yeah—to go readin’ the poetry I write when I’m feelin’… sentimental. That was me bare soul, that was. Man bares his bloody soul and that prick goes riflin’ through it.”

“He read it, Alfie. Every filthy word.” You desperately said, trying to make him understand what that meant.

“Well good then,” he said, like it was a blessing. “That’ll teach the bastard to open mail that ain’t got his fuckin’ name on it.”

How could he be so nonchalant about it? Didn’t he see how everything was coming down? While you felt every thread snapping, every lie and secret suffocating tighter, he stood there like a king on his throne, untouchable.

“He threatened to kill you. He said he’d burn your business down with you inside. And he meant it, Alfie, I know he meant it.” Your voice cracked, finally, your chest tightening as panic fought its way up your throat.

“I ain’t even interested in my business no more. Could lose every fuckin’ pound I ever made and wouldn’t care, long as I got your mouth on me balls and your cunt drippin’ for me.”

“Well, you won’t have any of that if you’re dead!” He wasn’t taking this seriously and it infuriated you. “This isn’t a joke! You don’t know yet what he’s capable of.”

“No. He doesn’t fuckin’ know what I’m capable of, love. That’s the difference, yeah?” Alfie stood up and walked close to you, he breathed against your mouth. You could feel the heat radiating off him—like he was more flame than man.

“He’ll burn down my distillery but I’ll burn his whole fuckin’ world down to keep you with me.”

You shook your head, breathless. “I don’t want war between you two.”

“Well I do,” he growled. “I want war, I want blood, I want that smug fucker to know that when you scream my name it’s not some fuckin’ joke—it’s gospel.” His voice hit you low and hard, your knees nearly buckling under the weight of his rage and devotion tangled together.

Then his mouth was on yours—hungry, claiming, brutal. His arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d vanish. He kissed you like a man starving, like he hadn’t tasted anything real in years. You melted into him, your fingers clinging to his shirt like he was the only thing anchoring you to this earth. You moaned into him, and he growled, low and deep in his chest like an animal. You could feel the tension vibrating in his muscles, in his grip—like he was holding back something violent, something sacred.

“You scared for me, love?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because the moment you looked up at him, Alfie saw it all. The shaking in your hands. The pressure in your chest. The silent scream still echoing in your bones. The fight still rattling in your lungs. The slap of Tommy’s words against your cheek. The way your whole body hummed with tension, with need.

“You shouldn’t be, right? Your brother—he can bloody try, yeah? He’s got balls, I’ll give him that, but he ain’t blowin’ me to bits before I make good on every filthy promise I ever made you. Every single one.”

“I told him I loved you,” you whispered. “I told him he can’t keep me away from you.” Your voice trembled, but there was steel beneath it. You meant every word.

“Fuckin’ right you did. That’s my girl. Standing up to King Shelby himself. Christ—bet you looked like a proper little firecracker, didn’t you? Oh, I’m gettin’ hard just thinkin’ about it.”

“He laughed when I told him you loved me,” you said, trying to suppress the tears pooling in the corner of your eyes. “He said I was stupid, that I was only your whore, that you’d get bored of me.” The words stung again just saying them, echoing in your head like poison.

He grabbed your wrist, brought it to his mouth, kissed the inside like he was branding you. His lips were hot and reverent, his eyes burning into yours.

“You know what you are to me, treacle? Hm? You’re mine. Not a fuckin’ whore. Not a fuckin’ Shelby. Mine.”

He didn’t wait. Didn’t ask. Didn’t speak.

There was no room for words. Just fire. Just fury. Just need. He just yanked you after him by the same wrist he had in his hands, up the staircase that creaked under his boots. His grip was firm, fingers digging into your skin like he couldn’t bear to let go. It wasn’t just urgency—it was possession, desperation. Like he needed your pulse under his thumb to believe you were still his. You followed blindly, breath shallow, blood roaring in your ears.

His bedroom upstairs was dark, lit only by the late afternoon spilling through the broken blinds. The door slammed behind you. He pushed you onto his bed like he’d done many times before and settled on top of your body, pressing you down against the mattress. The weight of him—solid, overwhelming—made you gasp, your spine arching instinctively as heat bloomed low in your belly.

His mouth found yours again, harder this time, messy—all tongue and teeth, like he was punishing you for leaving him in the first place.

His hand slid down your body, possessive, almost rough, grabbing at your waist like he wanted to anchor you there forever. You gasped against his mouth when his knee shoved between your legs, grinding up, letting you feel how hard he already was for you, catching the heat already growing there, dragging friction over your aching core until your thighs quivered around him. You whimpered into his mouth, your body answering his with wicked familiarity, your hips instinctively rolling to chase more.

“Right, now listen to me, yeah?” he growled between kisses. His voice rumbled in your mouth, filthy and final, making your heart punch against your ribs. “From now on, you don’t fuckin’ leave this house. D’you hear me, treacle? You don’t go runnin’ back to your brother like some fuckin’ messenger pigeon. Nah. You stay here. With me. Where you belong, right?”

“Gonna keep you here,” he murmured. “Every fucking night, and every time I wake up hard, I’m gonna bend you over somethin’ else and I’m gonna fuck you.”

Your hands clawed at his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, desperate to feel skin. He groaned low in his chest as you dragged your nails down his back. His muscles flexed beneath your touch, skin hot and damp with sweat, the scent of him thick around you—leather, salt, smoke, and man.

A deep, guttural sound tore from his throat, and the next second his hand slid up the skirt of your dress, tugging it up your body until he slid it off you. His fingers tracing the inside of your thigh—slow, teasing, maddening.

“Fuckin’ soaked, like always,” he muttered, voice thick with pride and filth. “Good girl, getting ready to take this cock.”

His fingers shoved your knickers aside and slid through the heat of you, gathering slick like he needed proof. Your hips jerked, mouth falling open in a gasp. The obscene wet sound of him stroking you filled the room, and it made your head spin.

“Been dreamin’ about this cunt, yeah?” he rasped. “Dreamed of the way your thighs wrap around my head when I’ve got my face buried in your cunt. Tell me you’ve dreamed it too. Dreamin’ of sittin’ on my face, ridin’ it like it’s your fuckin’ throne. Go on—tell me.”

“Alfie—please—”

“Nah, nah, none o’ that whinin’ now.” His hand stilled. “Use your words, right? You want me tongue on your needy little cunt?”

“Y-yes,” you moaned. “Please, Alfie.”

He didn’t make you beg long. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t.

He shifted, kissing a lazy path across your chest, your hips, then down the inside of your thigh. Each kiss left a trail of fire, slow and claiming, and you trembled beneath the weight of what was coming.

You gasped as he spread your legs with rough hands, strong and familiar. His beard scratched your skin and his breath hit you warm and wet before his mouth finally met you—tongue hot and slow and fucking relentless.

He licked a long, lazy stripe through your folds, and your back arched off the bed with a gasp. He groaned into you like he was tasting something holy, like he’d been starving for it all night.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re always ready for me, ain’t you?” he groaned, pulling away just for an instant. “Could eat this cunt for the rest of my bloody life… Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Not a single thing in this world more perfect than it.”

Tongue flat, he drags it slow from your entrance to your clit, then circles it, kisses it, sucks it between his lips like he’s trying to draw your soul out through your cunt. His beard scratches your thighs, and his groans rumble through you

He moaned like a man starved, gripping your thighs tight as he buried his face in your pussy. It was messy, filthy, obscene—the sounds of his tongue leaping on your clit echoing off the walls as he sucked and licked like he was trying to memorize you, featherlight and teasing at first.

“You’re so fucking good at that—I can’t take it—Alfie…”

Your moans turned to whimpers, to cries, hips rolling helplessly against his face, chasing your climax. Your fingers found his curls, tugging hard as your back arched, hips jerking against his face, trying to get more friction to feel the relief on your aching slit.

“Alfie—oh my God—Feels too good—”

“That’s it, yeah,” he growled into your cunt, voice muffled, drunk on you. “Fuckin’ ride my face, go on. Give it to me. Show me how much you like it.”

And you did. You couldn’t help it, your hips grinding shamelessly against his tongue, thighs trembling, pleasure building too fast, too strong.

“There she is… there’s my good girl, ridin’ my fuckin’ face like she owns it.” He grunted against your pussy.

He didn’t stop. Not even when you screamed, not even when you sobbed with tears falling down your cheeks. He drank every sound, every shake, every tear. Your pleasure was his purpose.

“That tongue… Jesus, Alfie, you’re gonna ruin me.”

He flattened his tongue and licked you firmer, more purposeful now, flicking and flattening and sucking your clit until your back arches and your thighs clamp around his head. One arm looped under your thigh, pinning you open, the other hand gripping your hip like he needed to hold you down. You were unraveling for him, helpless under the devotion of his mouth.

“Go on then, cum for me—make a mess on my fuckin’ mouth.”

You came, sharp and sudden, a loud moan ripping from your throat as pleasure crashed through you. Alfie groaned, licking you through it, refusing to stop even as you writhed beneath him.

Only when you were twitching, gasping, did he finally pull back—beard soaked, eyes wild. The sight of him there—wrecked from you—was almost enough to make you cry again.

“Fuck, Alfie,” you gasped, dragging him up by the hair once your nerves stopped sparking. “Get up here, please… I need you.”

“Fuckin’ glorious experience, proper fuckin’ miracle. Devouring a cunt like this one. I’m a lucky man, treacle, I know I am.”

He unbuckled his trousers with one hand, the other still between your legs, keeping you right there, pinned and squirming. When he freed himself, you could feel his length pressing between your thighs, hot and hard and so fucking ready.

You reached between your bodies, your hand going straight to your core, rubbing your folds, gathering your sticky slick in between your fingers. Alfie let out a loud groan at the dirty image. His eyes darkened, jaw clenched, hips twitching like he could barely hold back.

After removing your hand from yourself you wrapped it around his cock, smearing your juices all over him with slow, filthy strokes that had him gasping for air. Getting his precum mixed with your arousal.

He hissed through his teeth as you stroked him once, twice, guiding him to your entrance.

“Gonna put a baby in you,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Right here. Fill you so fuckin’ deep you’ll still be dripping me when you walk back into Tommy’s house.”

He slammed into you with a groan so filthy it echoed off the walls and knocked out your breath. You were still soaked, sensitive, already spent from his mouth, still pulsing around him from your orgasm. And it only made everything sharper, hotter as he bottomed out. The stretch burned—but it was perfect. He was perfect. Big, thick, filling you like he was made for it.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he hissed through gritted teeth, holding still inside you, hands gripping your hips so tight you’d have bruises. “You feel so fuckin’ good, treacle—fuckin’ heaven, this.”

You felt split open, completely filled, your body stretching to take him. His voice—low and ruined with need—vibrated against your spine like a fuse being lit.

“You feel that? That’s me, stretchin’ out your greedy little cunt like I fuckin’ promised.” Alfie growled against your ear. “Makes you wetter, doesn’t it? Knowin’ your brother read how obsessed I am with your tight little cunt.”

You were gasping, desperate, broken. And Alfie was wild now, fucking you so deep your legs trembled.

“Ohhh, fuckin’ hell—you love it. You love that he knows… that he knows what his sweet little sister lets me do to her. Knows how I fuckin’ own you.”

He slammed into you again, dragging cries from your throat with each thrust, fucking you into the mattress like he would never get enough. His hand slipped under your thigh, pushing your leg higher to get deeper, hitting that spot that made you go dumb. Your nails clawed the sheets, your body arching instinctively to meet each brutal thrust. It was too much and not enough all at once.

“Fuck—fuck, Alfie—”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he grunted, rutting into you with filthy abandon. “Say my name while I fuck you full, tell me who this cunt belongs to.”

“You—you, Alfie—always you—”

“Say it. Say I’m the only one who gets to fuck you like this.”

“You’re the only one,” you gasped. “Only one I want.”

“Take it,” he growled into your mouth. “Take every fuckin’ inch, every drop, like the good little whore you are for me. Nobody takes me like you do.”

The filth of it made you tighten around him, made your head spin. He was claiming you—staking his right with every unrelenting thrust, like your body was land he needed to conquer.

“Turns me on like nothin’ else, d’you hear me? Bet he can’t even look at you now without picturin’ you on your knees for me, gaggin’ on my cock.” He groans low and filthy.

He was going hard, deep, every thrust pounding into you like he was trying to fuck away every trace of your brother’s threats—like he needed to bury himself so deep that no one else could ever get to you. Your moans turned to cries, incoherent, raw, as you gripped the sheets tight.

“Yes, oh yes, Alfie,” you moaned. “Please, don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

And he didn’t. He fucked you hard and deep, over and over. “You like this?” he grunted. “Like me claimin’ you like a fuckin’ animal, yeah?”

“Y-yes—yes, Alfie—”

At one point he flipped you over, your cheek pressed into the mattress, ass in the air, and he slammed into you again, his hand wrapped around your throat from behind.

His grip on your throat wasn’t gentle; it was claiming, thumb pressed just under your jaw, like he wanted to feel every gasp stutter in your windpipe. Your breath caught instantly, a strangled gasp tearing from your lips as his fingers locked tight, rough and sure, pressing into the soft sides of your neck like he knew exactly how far he could push it—how much you’d take.

You whimpered into the pillow, barely able to breathe around the grip of his hand and the relentless drag of his cock. It was feral. Possessive. Like he didn’t just want to fuck you—he wanted to own you.

He was fucking you like he didn’t care if you broke—like all that mattered was the wet heat of your cunt choking around him, clenching tight every time he bottomed out.

You were lost in it, the sensation, and heat and him, as he fucked you harder, deeper, each thrust making the bed creak and the headboard slam against the wall.

“Alfie—fuck—it’s too much—” your voice already a broken gasp.

“Nah, no such thing. I ain’t stoppin’, love. Not when you’re clenchin’ ‘round me like that—fuck—”his growl turns feral, thrusts rougher, sharper.

His hand tightening around your neck when you whined too loud, like he didn’t want to hear anything but your choked, broken little moans.

“You feel that?” he rasped, cock slamming deep. “That’s mine. That breath you’re fightin’ for—mine.”

He let up just slightly—just enough air to rush in and make your whole body lightheaded—and then squeezed again, dragging a wrecked, guttural moan from deep in your chest.

“Yeah. That’s my fuckin’ girl. Let me choke the fuckin’ sense outta you while I fuck it back in.”

Your mouth hung open, drooling into the mattress, chest heaving, lungs clawing for air that didn’t come fast enough. And fuck, it made you throb.

He let go of your neck, his hand slid down your front and between your legs, rubbing tight circles against your clit, pushing you closer, chasing your release like a man possessed. “Cum for me,” he said, voice a growl, “cum on this cock, show me you’re mine.”

His free hand slid up your back, fisted in your hair, pulling your head up so he could hear you pant and whimper for him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he grunted. “Stuff you full. Maybe you’ll keep some of it this time, yeah? Maybe I’ll finally knock you up. Wouldn’t that be somethin’?”

You choked on a moan. “Yes. Yes, Alfie—please—fuck—”

“You’re gonna let me breed you? Eh? Gonna take my cum and give me a child? an heir?”

Your whole body lit up, the filthy promise sending your orgasm crashing toward you like a wave. The thought of him filling you up, planting something inside you that was his—it broke you wide open.

“Yes—yes, Alfie,” you screamed in pleasure. “I’ll give you a baby… all the babies you want.”

“You feel that? That’s me—deep as I can fuckin’ get, makin’ sure it takes, yeah? Gonna put a baby in you if I have to fuck you through every goddamn night of the week.”

“Alfie—Alfie, I’m—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Cum for me. Soak me. Let that tight little cunt take it all—”

Your whole body tensed, back arching, the world falling away as heat exploded in your core and pleasure ripped through you like fire. You cried out his name, again and again, shaking under the weight of it.

Alfie followed with a ragged moan, hips jerking as he buried himself deeper, spilling his seed inside you, thick and hot and endless. But he didn’t pull out, he fucked it into you, making sure this time it’ll stay.

“That little pussy’s still suckin’ me in,” he growled. “Fuckin’ desperate to keep every drop. You’re gonna be so full of me. Gonna take, what, days to fuckin’ leak all that out?”

Another thrust—deep, steady.

“Gonna make sure it sticks,” he muttered. “My cock. My cum. All of it. Gonna fuck it in.”

You could feel him twitching deep, every last drop shoved inside you like it was a vow. The raw heat of it made your thighs shake again, overstimulated and full and completely wrecked.

“You’d look so fuckin’ good knocked up, love,” Alfie growled, voice thick and reverent, like prayer dragged through gravel. His hands were everywhere—possessive, reverent, filthy. “Swear to God—glowin’ with my child, round with it. Givin’ me the greatest gift a man can receive.”

His palm splayed across your lower belly, thumb stroking gently as if he could already feel the swell there, as if he were claiming it—marking you from the inside out.

“I’d worship you,” he said lowly, breath hot against your neck. “Every fuckin’ day, yeah? On my knees for you. Kissin’ your stomach, your thighs, your feet—don’t matter. You carry my legacy in you, and I’d treat you like the sacred thing you are.”

You lay there in the quiet aftermath, your chest still rising and falling fast, heart slowing only because Alfie’s weight was pressing you down—his breath fanning over your neck, his big hand resting on your stomach, thumb stroking the skin lazily like he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching you.

He eventually rolled off you, bringing you with him so you lay sprawled over his chest. Your body felt boneless, limp, like every part of you had been claimed. Owned. Loved in the dirtiest, most sacred way.

His beard scratched at your collarbone as he shifted just enough to kiss the hollow of your throat. “You alright, love?”

You nodded, letting your fingers slide gently through his beard, curling the messy strands. “You trying to kill me, Alfie?”

“Not killin’ you,” he muttered, voice all gravel and honey, “just ruinin’ you a bit, yeah? Properly. You deserve to be ruined.”

“Can’t feel my legs,” you mumbled.

“Good. That’s how I like it. Means I did it right.” He huffed a low laugh. “Then you ain’t climbin’ out of bed anytime soon, are you? No, you’re staying here with your husband.”

“You’re not my husband,” you teased, breathless.

“Ain’t I?” he muttered, curling around you. “Could’ve fooled me. Fill you up like that, love—only a husband’s allowed to fuck his missus that deep. It’s law, innit?”

You curled into him easily, your cheek resting against his chest, listening to the heavy thud of his heartbeat.

“You know me, treacle. You know I’m a bastard and a conman, but not with you, yeah? I mean every single bloody word I say when it comes to you.”

Something flickered in his eyes then—something raw and unguarded. This man who could break bones without blinking, whose language was violence, was soft only for you.

“I want you here, living in my house, right? In this house. In my bed. Cookin’ fuckin’ eggs while my cock’s still inside you. That’s what I want.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Then I’ll stay.”

“I don’t care if your brother burns my fuckin’ bakery down,” he said, lips brushing your jaw. “I’ll rebuild it. But I’m not losin’ you.”

READ NEXT PART HERE

A/N: Thank you sooo much for all the support on the last part. Writing for Alfie is one of my favorite things, and it makes me happy that you’re enjoying it. I get kind of anxious trying to figure out what to write next that’ll top the last chapter and keep you hooked (no joke, I reread and edit each one like a thousand times). Anyway, I hope you like this one and lmk if you want to be tagged in the next part. ly🩷

@rach5ive @meetmeatyourworst @itisjustwhatitis

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

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v6quewrlds · 28 days ago

Note

Yes Yes YESSS let I agreee let me add on to y’all I feel like on average one of Justin’s fingers is the equivalent of two fingers from the average man… and that’s not even accounting for the thickness (’cause oh lord, we all know his fingers are THICKKKK). I’m not lying as a petite 5’7” woman with small hands, I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around it (but I got something else that he could 😏). I could probably only take 2–3 of his fingers realistically atp (and even that would leave me squirming, legs trembling, trying not to clench too hard). And imagine the other finger on your clit as well? Oh pleaseee cause imagine that one remaining finger? Pressed tight on your clit, moving slow, all coordinated with the rhythm (’cause he will learn with a Black queen you hear 😤) of the other two inside you? Don’t even get me started on those same fingers sliding into your mouth right after he just finished fingering you. Warm, soaked, still glistening from you and he doesn’t even hesitate. He just taps them on your lips like, “Go on.” Or matter of fact I’d DIE just to hear him say “C’mere, baby. Open that pretty mouth for me.” in a southern accent too 😵‍💫😵‍💫 Cause southern accent gets me WEAKK as a country gal from Texas 😮‍💨

And you open automatically cause who wouldn’t 🤭🤭 You taste yourself on him, feel the stretch still pulsing between your thighs, and he’s just watching you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this is how it’s supposed to be. Like your mouth belongs to his fingers right after your body does (no way I just said that wth) Anyways the taste, the scent, the heat that leaves you dizzy he’s watching the way your tongue wraps around his fingers, dragging them out slow, groaning (🥵) under his breath like he’s barely holding it together. And you know he’d make you hold eye contact while you do it. And when you look up at him through heavy lashes, glossy eyes, glossy lips. And when you look up at him through heavy lashes, glossy eyes, glossy lips… you’re drooling, dripping, barely holding it together. And he’s sitting there like, “Mm, messy little thing… couldn’t handle ‘em inside, now you’re suckin’ on ‘em like they’re the only thing you know. That mouth miss ‘em already, huh?” 🙂‍↕️ CAUSE THIS? THIS? Is a NEED dammit 😭😭

His fingers would ruin you before anything else even starts. You’re already overstimulated, thighs twitching, body jerking at every movement 😌 Yeah, go ahead and put me on bedrest cause I prob just got added the the lustful suite in hell atp

#&. in cassie's words.#yeah no other words

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askbensolo · 5 months ago

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Journal Entry #57: Life Day 29ABY

I think I forgot to mention this, but Luke did send me a birthday note and one of his signature care packages. There was a mini bantha crochet plushie in it, which I named Mini-Ren.

I also have a feeling I know who made the plush.

Anyway, all that to say—I think he was trying to show that he wasn’t mad at me. And I don’t really understand why, but…I guess it’s a good thing.

Actually? Ever since Uncle Luke got in yesterday, he’s seemed kind of…depressed. And it’s weird being a grown-up, because I notice stuff like that now. I don’t think Rey has really picked up on it.

Still, I guess I’m on this council but not granted the rank of grown-up, because I overheard Mom talking to Dad in a hushed tone and I heard her mention Luke…but, when I tried to join the conversation, I got promptly kidzoned. By which I mean Mom abruptly turned to me and said “Hi, sweetie!” about an octave too high—which I knew roughly translated to “Access denied: you have not gained enough XP to unlock this conversation.”

Hm. The “your mother will permanently see you as the age you had your mental break at” phenomenon should really be studied, I think.

My cousin Lumpy (who goes by Waroo, now, but will always be Lumpy to us) brought his girlfriend home. Every year it’s a different girlfriend. And I’d make some joke about how he just can’t make ‘em stay, but…it would sound pretty ironic, coming from me, right about now.

Auntie Malla hate hate hates this girlfriend in particular, and for some reason I am her chosen confidante for these maternal judgments. Her fur is too short. Her claws are too manicured. She has not offered to help Auntie Malla in the kitchen even once, and Auntie Malla fears she will go bald if Lumpy marries this girl.

“Ya know, Auntie, with how many girls he’s brought home over the years, I don’t think Lumpy seems too interested in marriage,” I said.

Auntie Malla looked absolutely stunned—and then she said, well—Lumpy had better hurry up and propose to this girl, and if he ends up with a wife who doesn’t know her way around the kitchen, then—bah!—that’s his own punishment to bear.

I laughed and gave Auntie Malla an affectionate pat on the back.

Caught Mom and Dad in the den under the mistletoe when they thought no one was lookin’. About five years ago, I would’ve thrown something at them. But this time, I just chuckled and rolled my eyes.

Because…cheers to them, you know, for still being insane about each other, twenty-five years later. With double careers, a grown-up problem son, and an adopted teenage daughter. And still they’re suckin’ face.

I wonder how people manage to find something like that.

I closed the door on them. But—couldn’t resist calling out that I don’t want any more siblings, first.

Didn’t get the last laugh, though. Dad called back that I didn’t have to worry, ‘cause the swimmers ain’t swimming no more—and I think I oughta be entitled to financial compensation for having to hear my old man say something so unnecessary—even if I was asking for it.

Found Uncle Chewie and Uncle Luke out on the terrace. Chewie gave Luke a big hug, and then came inside as I was coming out.

“Hey, Ben,” Uncle Luke said warmly. As if everything was normal, between us.

“…Hi,” I said.

Luke said he’d heard about me and Fannie (from Fannie herself, probably), and that he was sorry about it, and he knew it must be hard.

I had my doubts about the sincerity of this statement, given he had made it sooo clear before that he thought we were better apart, but…what did any of that matter, now? I could tell he was trying to extend sympathy toward me, regardless of whatever he might thinking in the privacy of his own mind—and, you know…I found myself willing to accept that.

“Thanks,” I said.

I asked if he had spoken to Fannie recently, and he said he had. He asked if I had spoken to Amalia recently, and I said I had.

Funny, I said; maybe we oughta switch comms for a day, and then you could talk to Amalia for once, and I could talk to Fannie.

And I wasn’t expecting Luke to find that funny, but…he actually did.

Just a little.

Since we were able to break the tension, I…told him I was sorry about before. And I said more, too, but…since I already went through all of that once, you’ll have to forgive me for not going through it all again here.

I asked Luke if he was doin’ okay. And he said…oh, yeah, fine. But…I could tell there was more he wasn’t saying.

I paused, and then I asked him if he was ever gonna take a break from the school. Like—a sabbatical, or something. Since he runs it all on his own.

He said he couldn’t. Because he runs it all on his own.

I told him, well then—he should just run away and go into exile and become a hermit on a hidden island, somewhere.

And I wasn’t expecting him to find that funny.

But, he did.

Just a little.

…Or, maybe, even a little bit more.

Interesting, I thought. And I tried to press a little more, but I didn’t really get anywhere.

Hm, I thought to myself. Well. I’ll be seein’ this guy 52 times next year. I’ll get to the bottom of this or else.

But, I didn’t say that part out loud.

What I did say was, “Happy Life Day, Uncle Luke.”

And, “Happy Life Day, Ben Solo,” is what he said back.

And—“Happy Life Day, my dudes” is what I’ve got to say to you.

Cheers to the year ahead, friends.

—Ben

#askbensolo #written #life day #uncle luke #auntie malla #cousin lumpy #mommy leia #dad solo #marital intimacy

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thequicksilverfox · 1 year ago

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Malfean Flow

I'm a Green Sun Prince, I smoke that golden scarab type shit.

Im eating sacred green beans out of a silver demon skull, suckin the motes right out of a cataphract.

I'm like a beach, the way Kimbery keeps hittin me up.

I'm an ogre, I'm bitin chunks outta the Elemental Pole of Earth.

My horse is a fucking wasp, do not fuck with me.

I'm smoking rolled-up pattern spider, people get entheogenic boners when I breathe out. I'm smokin Loom Leavings. I'm smokin Wood Dragon.

She tried to give me a Writ of Citation from the Heavenly Bureaucracy, I told her I already stole one of those.

I set my flame piece to "crack pipe" and gave Ahlat a permanent stomach ulcer.

I'm huffing fumes out of an artifact called The Fuck Gun, I don't even know what the fuck it does. I'm on that third-circle pussy. I'm smoking whole Blood Apes.

I drank two forties I'm pretty sure used to be Lunars before some dipshit sidereal hit em with that Charcoal March of Shitty Beer. I don't give a shit, I'm thirsty as fuck.

We're smokin First Age Solar Mummy. We're smokin Puppeteer's Plague.

I found out the kid was mine. I said "who's the father." She said "Sextus Jylis." Now his dick's detachable, I call that shit deciduous.

I don't gotta wait for Calibration, Liger wants me so bad all I gotta do is whistle. I'm not even a sorcerer.

I got a warstrider named Dragon Fucker 9000, Mara's always askin me to try it on. I don't fuckin know why.

Don't even look at me, my image is burned into your corneas anyway. I'm goddamn incandescent. And green.

#infernalposting #exalted #submitted with apologies to all readers

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notmuchtoconceal · 1 year ago

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Tired and Free (Stronger, Habit of Me)

ON MY KNEES, DON'T MAKE ME STOP:

ONE MORE TIME, ONE MORE TIME \\./ //.\\ \.// 710380960171069083017 (A Far From Complete Survey of the Record, Detailing But a Scant Few of the Ways In Which You Are A Duplicitous, Backstabbing Manslut Who Don't Use Protection) . o . ( o ) . o . o /./.\.\/.\/./.\.\ o

( o )

[Close-up: The plucky face of a toothy, square-jawed Anglo-Aboriginal-Asiatic-Miscellaneous Man-God, whose perfect teeth worthy of depiction in gold-emboss alike with stained glass attained their character of distinction hammered by years of poverty, malnutrition and dick-fistings from repeated lippings off, being visibly an uncompromising prophet and intellect.]

- G'day, Major. Name's Haruspex. Bruxer Haruspex. Former captain of the Ruelandese National Guard. Reportin for duty. Know we've been acquainted on many occasions, what with our numerous adventures over the years, but -- y'know... sometimes ya just loike to restate the basic premises and assumptions so everyone's on the same page. Never know who might be listenin in. Some freshfaced new recruit might not know the hierarchy yet. Best you just play it loike a radio thing y'know -- restate the basic premises and assumptions succinctly before each altercation, that way anyone can just jump right into the story.

He said funny things like that. He said funny things in that funny voice of his :-- It made your dick hard how funny his voice was.

- So, get this. All the men back in my village in Rueland -- they were all tragically (tragically overused, that word tragically) well, they were all tragically murdered in the same three week span while out huntin ostrich -- No, no. Ostrich. Ostrich plural. Back in Rueland we couldn't afford all those extra blowy noises. Only learned men and old-school ultra-poofs who fancied gettin fisted up to the elbow with Crisco for lube could afford all those extra blowy noises -- though the truth was, we was all to stupid to tell the difference, we're bein honest. There was one lad -- a gentleman and a scholar. He weren’t harmin no one, mate. (.) Jus tryin to translate Can’t into contemporary Inglish. Never hear that poor fucker so much as wheeze again. … Strained the tongue too much, we're bein honest. All those blowy noises. We needed to keep our tongues strong. So many long mornins -- suckin cobra venom true a goat teat ta build up a tolerance lest we venture out into the front yard alone. Stared down the black eyes of that devil bird down many a lonely road ... Well, get this. I was the only boy in left in my village after that. You know what that means? Means I got the attention of all the -- wait for it -- the attention of all the --- all the girls. I was absolutely showered in -- pause for effect -- showered in girls. Major ... um. ... Major, do you know what I like? Major, do you know what i really, really like? Major. Major -- do I gotta say it? Do I really gotta say it out loud? Major. Major. I like -- I like girls. Oh my Gosh. I love girls. I love their pillow fluff bodies. I love their silky fragrant locks. I love their big doe eyes -- and I love how my heart flutters into lard ripples of buttercreme when I'm just shaftin em -- poundin on em like a lil yippin puppy. Oh I just wanna be pet! -- Oh I just wanna be pet! -- um, Major. Major, I'm not gonna lie ... can I … can I be real with you for a moment? I think I just -- come closer -- I think I just really, really wanna be pet?

[scratch behind the ear]

… Major! Major, you make so happy major! Oh, the girls -- oh Major when i lived with all the girls they pampered me like a princeling. They slopped me lips in wineys -- they stuffed me cheeks with ciggys -- they bit me venomously down me lowly hangin lips -- haha -- once I got in a scrape with a mongoose. Tore that fucker in half. Ate its heart out in retribution. Still got seven inches. Couldn’t even afford lemonade as a chaser ... guess what? Now? Now I drink for the emperor. I can imbibe elixirs from across the globe and name region of origin by scent alone. I can identify over 808 types of poisons, toxins, corrosives, unguents, tonics, herbal teas, snake oils and supplements down to the individual peptides -- to say nothin of the dungy taste of another man's spit --

[[Wanted to cut in right here, mostly to show him his big intro is worthy of the ashcan, but unfortunately it remains beneficial to the reader to be aware of who's speaking, even if that necessitates having to introduce Brux for the 8th fucking time -- Laik]]

… ostrich. It was only the one, really. Birds are a lot smarter than you wanna give em credit for, well …

... bird.

His passion for the fairer sex was, on occasion, a novel diversion -- though often destabilizing to group cohesion.

- Goils! Goils! Goils!

If the outermost extreme of his peripheral vision caught so much as the hemline of a skirt, he would veer out of formation blindly into oncoming traffic.

[Schreibermachen – greets the gun barrel morning with a glint of dawn]

- Look over yonder, Psychorrhax. Toward the gray and blighted horizon -- Cpt. Haruspex leaps and dances as though attempting favor with the sun, or else dares to implore the bounty of a cargo drop.

[Young Psychorrhax views – resolute in the most measured scorn]

- Perhaps it is code, Cpt. Schreibermachen.

- Astute as always, Young Psychorrhax. Please be so kind, as with your cocksucker’s lips so full-figured and forward, to do our company the favor of rendering unto speech the fiery valor of our fallen comrade.

[Corneal Contraction in Aerial View]

- 'Need no help, friends. Learned urban foraging in the Ruelandese Guard. Can survive a whole lunar cycle on this here roundabout.'

[[Brux, lacking in Tranny Vision (TM) -- which he uninstalled out of a backdoor access concern, arising solely to facilitate encounters such as the following -- will take a minute to get the gag -- Laik]]

… is the woman giving up to him her cherries, Cpt. Schreibermachen?

- In moments he shall be spitting up the pits!*

[[Yes, Brux really did teabag a woman for five whole minutes before realizing most goils don't got those. Sorta makes you wonder about the state of the female sex over in Rueland, or if maybe Brux is reinventing himself a little more than he lets on. Hey, he's not a total and complete dumbass, he's a tantalizing enigma! -- Laik]]

[[*Yes, this really is the caliber of dialogue I had impromptu with my boyfriend. If being in love makes you a LARPer, I think every European needs to just get over themselves and accept they're a bear-fucking theater fairy. -- Alkali, the Second Laik, He Who Henceforth is Established]]

If the prospect of rescuing young women were to intercept the docket, his short term memory would obliterate itself and he would seize into a deadlock by the dictates of his mating instincts.

- That conical fortress up on the top of the hill? Estimated material of construction: tetrahedra-sifted Jovian swirl concrete. Estimated date of construction 370-390 Post-Imperial Trans-Fracture. Estimated plundering -- well-- hehe. There are girls in there, Major. Baskets and baskets full of... wait, no. Hold on, see. This part – this part is very relevant to my backstory, you see, because I was very well taken care of, and that's influenced my loike -- sensuous philosophy of life, y'know? First time I saw a battlezone, I saw a guy's head get blown clean off ... Well, more like a buddy, really. I can't even remember his face -- yeah. It's hilarious now but at the time I was thinkin 'Shit. I'm a lover not a fighter. I'd rather be twirlin a baton than a rifle, but hey. I look good doin either.' -- I dunno. Loikely, I wasn't so glib in the moment -- y'know. I was just thinkin of the sorta thing that I'd like to say to a girl once I found one, but I gotta be honest with ya, Maj. I don't remember findin any. What I can remember faintly was curlin up into a ball and cryin me eyes out -- just bein so scared and so alone and wantin to die

<<<

>>>

... some memories, mate. Some memories are a lot like a boomerang... or maybe a girl -- y’know. Ya throw em. Ya get distracted. You’re not payin attention -- they’re gonna slap ya right back you're not payin attention.

Cpt. Schreibermachen -- that fuck Joey -- once hoisted a pair of silk women's undergarments up the flagpole of the Display and Punishment Pavilion, and lace and shimmer billowing, Brux was by means of sheer appetite able to scurry thirty feet vertically, where clinging to himself like a scared koala, he lost any sense of spatial or temporal orientation and found himself lacking in the grit to leap back down.

[a song of hollow alloy – shrieking on a buckling gourd]

- Major. Major, don't help me. I can do it. I can stay up here. I can stay up here all day -- with the panties. Nobody look. I'm gonna sniff em.

You turned away. For the sake of the common decency, you turned away.

[Cpt. Schreibermachen's hand eclipses the sun]

- Look upon my labors, Psychorrhax -- and tremble.

[Laika doing jazzhands]

- I’m trembling -- I’m trembling, Cpt. schreibermachen, sir!

- Your struggle is not heroic, Psychorrhax! You flinch from greatness as a temple priestess from a backhand! Your heart is full of falsity, cowardice, and petty vanity! I long to be rid of you as a golden beast would be a brood of ticks!

Some moment in the past -- his shoulders shone with blacker luster.

Cpt. Schreibermachen stares through a porthole. The black room. The black glass. Psychorrhax in biohazard gear -- banana beetle yellow -- stares through a porthole of his own. Curtains of latex. Sheets of latex. The sweat fragrant on his fingers. Pooling on the bed. A pool of yellow beetles. He stares up. Mirrors on the ceiling. Larger than the others.

- Been awhile. Missed how good you smell.

[[No Comment -- Laik.

All the comments -- Al.]]

Some nights, he found himself wanting for spectacle and was forced to manufacture dilemmas in which he might showcase his expertise – to be tempted to compete for a treat unrightfully earned.

=-= = =.= = =-=

The starlight of city lights shone into the wide gilt and marble grid of the solarium. Cpt. Haruspex ejected his soda stream.

o))<

- Nobody move. Joey pissed the punch.

The spittle dripped down Laika's face.

- Cpt. Haruspex, you took but a sip...

[[Got to film this shit like forty times. When Joe was reviewing the footage for the transcript, he replayed the final shot on the viewer with a similar repetition, simply to revel in the self-evident reality of having absolutely selected the finest take, the one which embodies most the pathos of the scene as latent on the page in all its torrid ardor, embodied now in stunning three-dimensional reality by moi. -- Laik

None but I have witnessed the scenes in which the Wallies dance -- Al]]

[radiant day through the windows in Joey's insertion shot]

- He has you there, Haruspex. Not even your finely honed culinary prowess could have so quickly and silverly ascertained that it was my broth which pollutes the vino!

[Brux requested two white elephants and a troupe of acrobats for his]

- I could sniff out those fruity notes with both eyes open!

(DROTTIN - and a crab-stalk grafted on his dick, bro.)

- As if you couldn’t. As if anyone couldn’t!

- It’s citrus, Haruspex!

- Citrus is a fruit, golden boy.

(DROTTIN - You turned it into the world’s worst tinto verano. I’m fuckin thirsty, bro!)

–\\./–

Cpt. Schreibermachen – that fuck Joey – glanced at you through the light. Through currents of the straw to gold of his hair, all motes shone as points on rings of iron cross.

His smile – its manifold condescensions – unmoored his face from the affection it so rightfully earned. He seemed only ever – to be half-looking away. You could somehow see – yourself blurry in his periphery. Though flesh before you – already you carried the quality of memory.

- Not that I ought guarantee myself a good first impression – though I ought expect to still give a second and third!

The full weight of his eyes fell on Laika Psychorrhax – squire still at heart – and Laika smiled with the warmth of a saint or Madonna painted powder blue and scale of shellac over the rim of a bow of candleglass.

- As though his neck were that candle and his eyes the flickering flame!

To see the light snuffed out. The wax glide down the slope of your arm. As a shard of the mosaic of her face entered you by slip of palm.

– Glistening gossamer – What milky nebulae fins between my fingers!

( o )

{{FROM Löwenrudel-2 :-- Where Fraternization is Shown to Be More Than Strictly Fraternal}}

- Welcome to A Bruxaria – a show that may or may not still be The Bruxcast. On my program today, I have the effervescent lil tall sip of fizz, Cpt. Luxor Drottin ready to serenade us with some fine poppy foam bubbles I know you'll be eager to trickle right down your shirt fronts!

- What up, Brother Brux. You got a special girl in your life yet, bro?

- She's out there, mate! Might be listenin in right now for all we know!

- Bro, what I know is you're gonna make the luckiest lady alive the lady who makes you the luckiest man alive. You're so special, Brother Brux. You deserve a special girl to be with all the rest of your days ~ !

- Cpt. Drottin, I have to ask – you a Great Dane or just a Standard Swede?

- Deffo not enough Finns to make a whole fish, bro.

- An avalanche every iceman cometh, I am indeed the jelliest of donuts!

(STICK IT IN A PUSS O/o STICK IN A PUSS o/O

YOU LOVE TO CUP THE VULVAE /O CUP THE VULVAE /o

CUP THE VULVAE O/O )

- Bro, you should soundproof Cpt. Hlaford when you're recording, otherwise stick em someplace soundproof, bro. Holy hell – What are you even spending 9/10ths of our total broadcast budget on if you can't account for basic quality of life improvements?

- Mate, we hadn't always been a big show. You're a young up-and-comer. You weren't with us in the early seasons. I started out as a pirate channel in a janitorial closet and did every show to the hammer beat of Wally deadliftin in nothing but a big sweaty-ass stained lycra singlet and cheese scented wool socks, the singlet himself (itself -- weren't once human!) almost obscenely padded out by a fat heavy knit cotton tee which'd accrued mothscales on pine like sycamore sap; sweatmarks foamroasted in tree rings so much so I thought he were wearin some sorta throwback arctic camo -- sometimes just strippin outta his drenched as shit singlet, tossin his goofy coconut tropical-scented pineapple-printed dick briefs at me head, full on fuckin sloshin me like urinal piss foam in a mug I served outta the tap at me own bar -- and Wally fukin drank it down, asked for another and another -- by the end, I was dehydrated, lyin on me side jitterin and he just bleched and said he was goin out fer a beer /// Live on air, his stinky fuckin briefs hittin me head, and it's so sweet and anointed and heedy like a fuckin pina cooldada it takes awhile to taste the burn :-- Joshua Openly Fornicatin Christos, I bet this man's cock is delicious! I just wanna stare the seat of his pants everyday the rest of my life and cringe thinkin bout how good it'll taste, but never ask cause I'm such a shy and delicate flower -- I had to hear it during recording, during editing, on the air. It's part of me creative process now. There just is no motive to create without hearin Wally scream through a wall, punch through the wall, chase me round the room, hollerin after me to gimme back his soul. Destroyin all my equipment, but not before it can all be backed up to the satellite, way out in space, where Wally's domain can not yet penetrate out into the upper atmosphere ~0~ !

... Tell you the truth, I can't coax him into helpin me do it unpaid, so I just sorta loike – y'know. Built my sets around him. Sometimes cut off pathways in advance to keep him boxed in... change the patterns of nature to make him predictable, just sorta like – you know. Follow him and record so inspiration can strike the second he lets his guard down and thinks he's free to be himself, but I'm just over here bein a nosy lil anthropologist lady who wants to record the sound of him gettin it on so I can once again feel the butterly tinglin in my nowhere places when the currents of life are alive and fruitful like a smoothie churnin an egg-beater round my brain out which I will fry the heartiest crepes?

- Bro, to be completely honest – I have so many questions, I don't even know where to start, so um – I won't unless you give me a few moments to collect myself, which I doubt you will?

- Mate no, by all means. This is a show where two people talk! A talk show. I have to show you talking! In all the hours we've been together, I'm sure I definitely have footage of you talking. Go ahead. Prove it to me now and to the viewers at home that you have participated in my talk show by talking to me – Now. Live on air. Edited only for initial broadcast.

- Um –

- Cpt. Drottin, you know, I think –

\\./

[[Commercial breakfast. Dignity & self-respect. You ain't what I eat. -- Laik]]

//.\

Cpt. Schreibermachen glanced at Drottin through the light.

He seemed for a moment, only anonymous. Some face more flesh than memory, shed as the cicada shell of a mask.

- Never have I met a man before as you, brother – as uncut and void of substance as myself.

Cpt. Drottin let himself linger -- in the glance that he threw back.

He would stroll as he would linger. Some eternal dusk whenever he took things slow. Though his eyes was the hardball palming the mits of the leather, soft. No fangs to see in the dusklight he crept.

Corrosion softest in the creases. Parts of him wore away, from wear and from moisture, and it seemed inevitable – that he should decay though still a young calf he was. To slaughter before spoil. No caustic splotches. No sheens of oilslick to stain. The wear of age which deep intuition had bent into seams varicose down the planes of his face – hairline fractures in the light which only you would see, for only you looked and met not a man's eyes before meeting the topography of his skin as you interrogated your seawall against oblivion every morning.

You had seen comelier young men putresce on the vine. He was simply microdosed with his own fermentations, dispersed in beads along the sweet. You never tasted his punch, or into what frenzy it drew you.

- I will hear you, brother – for you are a virtuous man.

Schreibermachen wore a brief of cotton, Drottin a brief of aluminum. The translucence of the strands wrung-spun and glow-wormed in the rays of the evening sun, refracted off the contouring of their meddle.

Their cocks they pushed together, to careen shaft to shaft, in boy's adventure fables where they knew the heroics of their capacities for life and for daring, ascending and descending the ropes from which they hung and swung, sang and wrang (though sometimes it were vine or stone) and they could press only closer to cling in embrace, singing praises of valor, sputtering salival and bellowing, articulations upon articulations as you strove to meet his eyes ~

Though your head craned back as his, slick inside the prison of his briefs, as you foamed through the cling of yours -- your slick coating his, beading through the meshing to mingle with his as he stewed in your seepage and his stung your nicks -- your cockheads so tight inside the dual collar of your phimotic ring, magenta and clamped upon by the joint limitations of your own crucified anatomies, where you were girdled in flesh as you were gartered in fly, as much two bodies trapped within a mind as two minds trapped within a body, inches upon inches /

Your eightheads together, (4 + $ - CAP = ←) meeting his eyes with the mutual piteousness of your need, hovering at a threshold of ecstatic communion, condemned to never plummet off, but shoot deep roots into the rocks at the edge, to drop fruit to be carried far in the rivers below ~ your trunks entwining and your branches parting farther, the spongeal nodes of your need still aching and pressed together, no longer able even to rub, but merely to give and merely to pulse in the same heartbeat of your idiot-eyed surrender to himself and to you ~

Breeches around your ankles in the public squares, your uniform jackets drenched with drool, foaming down your legs and into your breeches, briefs so soaked-through there is nothing left to-be unseen ~

... and you are breathing in the spice of Cpt. Drottin's beard, longing to bite at it, but you can only hold him, wishing your faces were clamped even closer together, stuffed by the figure-eight of a dual-chambered inflatable gag, lips bolted in the optical illusion of a vice-grip jaw to jaw so you could meet his eyes, only his eyes, and never be away from those pools into which you longed to drown, but would plunge only into to scale up – for the light you saw was but a reflection of your own.

… you are the true foundation, Brother Joseph;

Drottin sang to ache ~

the exhaustion he could no longer prolong.

[ Camera left rolling for six hours.

Through the silky, slatten light

falling through embers of alleys;

Cpt. Hlaford bums a smoke off a derelict saint, to bless him with a bottle of spiced rum, and a pirate jig they will do.

A pirate jig they did do for you.]

( o )

{{FROM Löwenrudel-3 :-- Where Instigation By an Outside Party is Established}}

Cpt. Psychorrhax lingered long in Brother Jacek's line of sight.

His eyes could move nowhere but where they willed -- for Psychorrhax moved them by subtle stirrings of weaves and misdirects.

A carnival hare in a conjurer's grip, more meat than felt. Held taut by his throat, stirring in the hand of fate. Though he moved with an air of what was causal, if slight and rushed -- precocious a boy that he was -- around him the currents of the air lit ablaze as if molecules ignited in figure eights, and so lent to his every motion the swell of a crashing wave and with it all the drama of a dance ~ though it was mute as the tall grass, billowing though he was still / a mound all around the vegetation.

Brother Jacek held his gaze -- he tracked Laika everywhere.

( o )

{{FROM Heute Ist Der Tag (An Dem Ich Dich Traf) :-- Where Sycophantry is Itself Revealed to Be a Form of Instigation}}

[Close-up: Cpt. Drottin shorn of beard and bear fur, looking particularly barely legal despite being a 6'6" scruffy blonde goat demon (sprawling, stony and desolate as a winter landscape bereft of his key mammalian bounty, expressed now in the subtle fury of a simmering lechery) prancing about under terms of mandated faggotry in heavy yoke and chainlink, dick keyed up like a bank-vault rigged to blow if tumbled -- Laik]

- Sir, please --

Cpt. Haruspex needed to check the whine on that fan.

... don't make him wear that ridiculous thing outside. It's degradin enough that he's gotta wear it in! Way he's gotta hear himself jingle as a jungle cat harnessed in bells! ./. Stripped of his pride by every clattering din-ga-ling, ding-a-ling, hell-ooo-oooo . .\. Mate, lookit him shrimped! Dick's gotta be gettin all bent up squirmin round inside that tight pinchy thing! It's gonna come out all segmented like a centipede, scurry up your leg with its claws. Man his age shouldn't be stuffed into things like that! Hurt his self-esteem you tellin him what a happy lil slaveboy he is, all decked up as older brother's submissive totemized fuck-display!

[a biting of the lip~

a tenting of the trousers.

reluctance, aching to be rid of itself~]

Cpt. Haruspex you feel -/- ( o ) -\- would make for a great piece to complement Cpt. Drottin. They could recline on the armrests of your chair, //. ( o ) .\\ Elbows nestled in the smalls of their backs, two perfectly symmetrically chained slave brothers. -//- -//- -\\- -\\-

-One suggestion, there he goes. Threatens to turn me to furniture! Elbow me in the back til it bursts open like a dislocated knee, prejac jelly donut with pus and tobacco leaves rolled and puffed! Just the day-in day-out grindin and crushin, thoracic to the tray, bone-gutted loike ---

- Sir, may I say --

Cpt. Psyhorrhax approached in a haze of black merlot as Haruspex allowed the ostrich feather of his eyes to wave back and forth.

- Him! Yes, him! Laika would make for a much better slave brother!

Cpt. Psychorrhax attempted to hold his smile.

He conspired not to let his glee turn to disgust, glancing at Cpt. Drottin -.- visibly so much less than the nothing he was typically allotted.

- He'd be perfect, mate. Yeah. Laika's soft. Delicate. Spurnful and mournful. He's even prettier than Drottin. Got more sculpt. More bone. Got more woman scorned in him. He'd look twice as fetchin in a cocktail dress! He is round. He is soft. He is not not masculine, though his leg's definitely look pert and powerful poppin out the hem, muscular and tendony as free-range devil birds farmed for hate! Drottin is more... more somethin, tho not necessarily more of a soapdish. Prone to scum and lilac scent alike, you understand well nuff! Got so many beautiful boys to choose from, sir! My flesh bared in shorn and moisturized submission display would be a pox upon your eyes and induce mass blindness if televised! You must insist on torturing me so brazenly, for I have such a dutiful and loyal soul -- you yearn to test my resolve!

[[Fucker's referrin to Jacek now. Three just ain't enough! -- Laik]]

You would see Cpt. Psychoraggia presented before you in time. You would require two additional symmetrically-arranged slave brothers to complete your envisioned footstool, for two men would be a necessity of stability and comfort to support the weight of your size sixteens, and it would take two additional to unlace, suckle and lick with hoary breath.

[pretty sure this was still Brux talking]

- Sir, your proclamations are difficult to parse -- am I still the rest for your scaled grindstones or will I be an accessory to the footstool? Would I be honored to breathe deep of the earthy and brie-like tang of your post-parade bootsocks? It would be a much more pleasing fate, sir! You know you enjoy the sight a Brux on his knees. Don't even need pads, mate. Just let em swell up like baboon asses on each of my loike knobs, lettin the joints get all loobed up with inflammants, press em together and you thigh fuck me like some beautiful marbled skin-flap pussyboy!

From the look Laika refused to give it was evident to any with eyes to see he found himself taken by Cpt. Haruspex's enthusiasm.

[[The relevance for the inclusion of this scene here will become apparent in time. For now, be a good lil spectator and just enjoy the sights -- Laik

Eyes forever fit to feast. -- Al]]

( o )

{{FROM Löwenrudel-1 :-- Where Somebody Must Certainly Be Aware They Ain't Bein Subtle!}}

(_/~ ( o ) ~\_)

- Brother Jacek. Why the long face? You look as hoarse as you sound!

- I'm not sad, Brother Brux.

- Mate, you don't gotta hide nuthin from me. It's me, your buddy. It's me, Brux. You know I'd only ever lie to you if you weren't in your right mind and I needed ta subdue ya! Not that – y'know, you're ever fully in yer right mind, so I guess i'm never fully tellin ya the truth? and that's loikely the cause of some of your strain? but – y'know. Nobody's ever always in their right mind, mate. We all gotta lie to protect ourselves. It's not your fault that when people're around you they need extra protection and thus got a higher likelihood a lyin, and their lies – innocuous things that they are – only put ya further on edge. I swear to you, mate. I'm always tellin ya as much of the truth as I can, or I think ya can handle! and I know I'm super self-absorbed, but loike – I'm really tryin with ya, mate!

... not that I'm spellin this out cause I wanna manipulate ya or nothin, it's more like – I just need ya to see where I'm comin from, cause sometimes bein impersonal really is the best way to care for somebody?

... cause loike – y'know.

... on some level I really do wanna be your mum, but loike – realistically I can't? I feel like I'd be lyin to ya if I really did try to be your mum full-time, cause as much as I'd want to, I'd be openin myself up to more baggage than I could handle, and then I'd get strained and my strain would strain ya more, and it would begin to compose a vicious cycle of bitin off more than I can chew with a man who – I'm sorry to this say this mate – can really stuff his mouth cause he's not afraid to use his teeth?

… gosh, mate – I keep my distance around some men who, y'know – I dutifully serve and love and adore and now I gotta get close enough ta you to make ya feel safe and protected, but also – you could eat me. You really could. That is a probable outcome and it is one I need to protect myself against. It's not like – it's not like I don't want ya to be able to eat me either, cause – y'know. Chances are if ya couldn't eat me, I'd just have contempt for you? I'd certainly find you a lot less intriguin. There's somethin inherently fascinatin about danger that makes ya compelled to rush toward it? Though also – it cannot be overlooked – there's also somethin about danger that repulses ya and makes ya wanna stay away?

... I get it, mate. I get it. I wanna do everythin I can for ya, but I can only do it from a safe distance of no less than ten and no more than seven feet, and sometimes – y'know. You really do need me to get closer, but I can't? It's not your fault. It's not anybody's fault. There's simply an inherent difficulty in two men bein intimiate with one another, which is why men are best off bein intimate with girls, y'know – not that I gotta tell a fine, sharp-nosed poonhound like you, Brother Jacek, it's more loike –

- You're thinkin bout Joey and Laika?

- Red-handed as a reach-around in the jelly jar, Brother Jacek! Cherry as always! I cannot tell a lie, but I sure can filibuster! Roight, see – with Joey and Laika, it's loike – are they the same person? Like all blondes? It's kinda weird how much Laika wants to be loike Joey, right?

- You wanna be like Joey, Brother Brux.

- Mate, I do not wanna be like Joey. There's not a whole lot about Joey which is admirable or beautiful or thrillin, he's a thoroughly miserable person who can't love anybody but monsters. No offense. I was not thinkin of either you or our commander whom I venerate with offerings, or Laika himself for that matter, who seems to be a vain, petulant, amoral crackpot if you really squint between the hours of two and three.

... um, do I really think that? Do iIthink my loving and devoted brothers who I spend most of my time around are thoroughly loveless shells of human beings who can only inflict suffering upon themselves and upon each other? Have you ever noticed? This the sort of talk that you find uplifting and inspirational, Brother Jacek? would you like me to keep going, or would it be more productive if I bitched about Wally instead?

( o )

{{FROM: Johannestag-0 :-- Where a Poor Boy is Ruthlessly Eviscerated by an Imported Sissy From a Failed Nation}}

[[Our weekly Stygian Council meeting, already in progress -- Laik}}

With a storm wind, you rose the hand mallet.

It swung toward the anvil.

In the thunderclap which sparked, all had known -- that you were the only one with might enough to shut Joey up.

- Permission, sir!

Brux was piping up now --

… to bar Cpt. Schreibermachen from the introduction, indexing or glossification of any new businessships for a period of at least three lunar deci-cycles to perhaps even six solar hexi-cycles!

Overruled. Without Joey being the only one to talk, the venture would have to remain with Brux.

- Sir, you're sayin it with your face…

It was customary -- to humiliate all dissenters with the gavel.

Cpt. Haruspex, your dearest and most treasured confidant, fellow of strange lands and stranger loves, did not deserve the route degradation of our custom so delivered with such painful constancy.

- He is such a route disappointment to him, Cpt. Schreibermachen --

Cpt. Psychorrhax leaned to speak.

… that he is ashamed even to honor his failings with a public admission of evident reality, for Cpt. Haruspex's reputation remains so starkly in ruin, he would kick up dust before he realizes he has no shards left to hammer.

These words you knew to be Laika's –

For from the dulcet tones of his soprano, his diction mimicked Schreibermachen's as though a bird call through reeds, breathing venom into the hoary and wild snout of a petting zoo monitor lizard.

- I will throw pixie stick filling in your eyes Laik!

In Cpt. Haruspex's homeland, this statement would be deciphered as an act of targeted, disproportionate malice against an unstandard male -- for there remained a place where Brux remained but simply substandard.

- Sir, your breathtaking economy which melds the eloquence of your wit with the wit of your ecology could be but a dim remembrance cutting at the margins of sensibility outside the orthodoxy of the transcription!

Brux was keenly aware that Joey could cite plausible grounds for the necessitation of a footnote by -- with the ostentation of his sycophancy -- drawing attention to where he recorded his poetic impressions of your entrenched and solemn brow with but the most astute acuity.

- No new business it is!

Cpt. Haruspex shuffled his slick prints.

… well not if Sir's gonna encourage Joey to include that in the written report. To think that Cpt. Hlaford's fine and exquisitely legible and timely shorthand should be plastered over with Joey's jittery ink blotted scribblings, reeking as a packet of firecrackers engulfin gunpowder paper fortunes outta lunar meadowlings of flutter'd watermoths-- well, mate, it's like ya don't even wanna put together a dossier whose calligraphic simplicity recalls the stunning brushwork of printed Kyoto seclusion!

Cpt. Hlaford, finger blades sloshing the black tide, lashing at the manta flesh which gilled the filter of his ink theremin -- did not cease to recoil, though embodied the chaos within the lancing of his strokes.

- Cpt. Haruspex --

This was Cpt. Psychorrhax.

… Cpt. Hlaford resents that his achievements could be only ever fodder in petty games of onesupsmanship between men who lack even the lack of courtesy to consider one another their rivals.

As all were implicated in this comment, Wally could not resent it -- though under any circumstance, could have found ample cause to do so.

- Make me lick the blood off yer boots, aye.

Cpt. Hlaford's wrists would flick -- as his lips moved, puckering as suckerfish past gritted teeth, tethered by fingerbones to sugar-strings.

… once you kick me when i'm down, sir.

- Old business it shall remain then!

Cpt. Haruspex was eager to move back.

- New business resumes then!

As Joey was eager to remain forward.

- Terrorism funding! Today we're talkin bout terrorism funding!

Their throats filled the air. The room filled with their groans.

Cpt. Haruspex, a classicist well-at-heart, proved eager to scrape, as a horse carcass from a grill floor, our most languishing historical custom.

- What if the terrorists --

Brother Jacek, still as the earth below the storm wind -- held himself to attention. By some secret will, he found the fortitude to speak.

… aligned with the anarchists.

Cpt. Psychoraggia knew well the terror cells to be among our country's most well-endowed and respected counter-military measures -- they who would align with enemies of the state, both known and unknown, only if -- and when -- competitive salary or the need for artful experimentation necessitated nonseasonal conflict.

- They are our brothers too, Cpt. Jacek -- our brothers in headgear and neckscarf; cradling jet-propulsion tanks of double-humped gin.

Laika let his hand linger long on the sun-warmed slab of Brother Jacek's back. Joey saw nothing -- for he felt so truly what was evidently so evident, his hand could stain only what glosses the hide.

[[Gosh, I am just so lucky I never know which parts of Sir's narration are wryly sarcastic cries of anguish stemming from the unspeakable violence he's witnessed and perpetrated. Makes me feel so warm and fuzzy that for for all I know, all his words can mean the exact opposite and I've been autistic the entire time like some idiot dumbass! -- Laik

A stylist of pure probability -- Al]]

( o )

The room was spinning – You weren't.

You didn't feel too bad – Far from it.

This wasn't a place – You'd been too often.

- Maj. *******, sir – you switch from water to soda on your third and soda to tonic on your sixth – becoming so quickly well-traveled, your adventurousness knows no bounds -- a roadmap well-inscribed on the velium of a carcass, to be raptly gilded by the veinery of your bloat!

That lil fuck Laika – He was cute.

You didn't care much what his words mighta meant in reality – You just knew it'd be good to dick his face right here in the open.

- Bloated with fermentation, Psychorrhax – a dent in the sterling hull of his tap! Though his mass is admirable enough to lead navies– he has been fasting since noon before last, and not a single molecule stirs otherwise in his guts, shriveled beneath boughs of striated hardwood!

Holy fuck, Joey – you had a chocolate croissant and a Zoobier earlier – you're corrupted. You'll never regain your ketonic aura. Your face is already fat with carbs – Go throw up, you'll be pretty again.

Bro, you gotta trust you on this – Don't let anybody from the press catch you. Don't even look in a mirror, you'll never recover.

- The major is aware, Psychorrhax – lean prose is the product of a honed mind, in which a lean body is also the inevitable consequence. The workshop of his mind is cold butchery – for his words flay your still living cadaver and slice through the sinews of your pectoralis down to the bone, to wedge into finely sliced sheets some scalpel of his silent tongue – flat as sharkskin against the roof of his mouth when he does not lick … I am more fanciful, as though it needed be said aloud. A certain hunger stirs in my joints – a heaviness to my head and the clarity of steam rising off warm lakes of some clairvoyant space.

… I could have said as much… with half as much, this is certain – Had I not poisoned myself with a drizzle of cocoa and sweet orange on barley.

Economy. Economy. Economy.

It was all you drilled in this kid – and still he went first class.

- Big guy. Big buy – Whaddya you doin? Whaddya you lookin like that for? You tryin to make me grandma, wolfy? I ain't grandma. Don't care what big eyes you got – I ain't lettin you in. Nuh-uh. Not into my brickhouse. Brick shithouse. That's you. Need brick while I shit. Gotta be defensive. Stay defensive. Best defense is a good offense – Best offense is to never defend. Put you back in your hayloft – Where you belong. All those sticks. All these sticks – Hey. I don't know about those. You know about those? One of you – one of you is a witch. I can sense it. I been practicin – practicin my remote viewin – so I can find the remote. Find it anywhere. It's under the couch cushion – We got thirty sex cents. A pretzel. A copy of Jodi Flightplan on DVD. Gosh. What treasures. Treasures of antiquity. Gonna put em in a museum. We will Foster – All behaviors.

Your fuckin dad – holy shit, you loved this guy.

- Hey! Hey, big guy! You look with your eyes, not your hands, you hear? Eyes are big and freaky – don't need your big – weird ass crab claws on me. Big hairy dick vein. Oh my Gosh. You use that moisturizer I got you?

You're gonna give that fucker a hug –

- Oh no, oh no!

Gettin you this cushy fuckin job.

- Oh no!

Had to admit, padre – don't always get it, but sometimes – sometimes ya make a lick a sense.

- I need to be guarded – against my bodyguard – he might sneeze! Might sneeze on me! Change the makeup of my germs – I am a salad – Why is nobody – nobody puttin up a lil sheet. Sheet of glass for me to go behind? Where I can get naked – all ripply. Let people see me as a pretty lady.... I have tits. My tits are marvelous! I am spewing forth curdled milk from the goaty dugs which are the source of my supreme fecundity – lick my balls.

He was a riot –

He or somebody else actually thought this shit was poetry.

- Father, do not forsake decency by continuing to wander about fully clothed!

Joey – don't egg him on – he's liable to get scrambled when you try'n make him overeasy.

- You're becoming quite the clucking hen, Maj. ******* – though an omelet we will make, every egg you shall insist on cracking yourself upon the rim of the pan will scream out in the ecstasy of betrayal; for it was these into this fold which you have lain, to hear solely the song of how they sizzle!

If Laika was an egg – he'd be Faberge.

- Best you leave me on the mantle as you return to the kitchen.

Only time you wanted Brux – was when you had no idea where he was.

- Sir. Sir, stop. You could not – you could not – you could not knock out all three of those massive pillars holdin up the balcony – Naw, naw mate. Even with a charge from this distance, you don't have the breadth, or – dare I say? Yes. Yes, I do – You lack the ferocity to demolish stonework that distance apart unless you wanted to risk makin a damn fool of yourself – y'know – unless you tried some – wicked, loike – hurl of one pillar into another at breakneck speed sorta –

Cpt. Haruspex – you needed to admit – displayed, on occasion, a remarkable ear for strategy.

- X – XII – XIV – He has rediscovered whiskey, Cpt. Schreibermachen.

Don't need no fuckin helmet kid – This forehead splits axes.

( o )

The priests of the labrys he bent to his will – weighed with snow in gnarled poses, heavy as the boughs of spring – craned to him to blow mountain horns through the handles of their hollow axes.

- I have not spoken to Brother Laika in some time! What rulers echo in every void utterance! The pleasure has most certainly been his!

The rhubarb hues swollen beneath the sterile goatiness of his face – slick with his sweat, some idiot aureole played as his hair unfurled from the gilding of its honied comb – A kaleidoscope of arms and suckers in the brass-edged prongs of a heliacal crown which was his hair blowing in the breeze of the slate blue day – Metallurgical in the covalence of its bonds, the day overlooking the white of the plaza, yellow ivory by ash of gold.

- Sir, your words move me as only Cpt. Schreibermachen's do – have you, by some iota of probability unpaid, perchance to've read him?

...

–

As seeds scattered in the wind, they wanted not, yet wanted only to die.

A whole brood came of age, spurning the ovipositor which laid them. Without contradiction of their wants, the falsities of the false world into which they were born, they knew they themselves to be expendable – people who should have never been, sold now and always, to people who weren't worth it, on land which was not theirs :-- serving only the machinery for which they had been bred to be slaughtered.

The Carpenter removed his hood – he was but (A) Baal by kinder words.

He sang to them. In harmonic resonances of love, he sang to them. By the grosses, from bridges which rose in honeycombed towers, drone embryos flew without wings – into the traffic of tankmen to be torn under wheels pulverized & dragged – limbs flash-fried a second here and there, wasted :-- untold countless unclaimed prophets squandered.

((( o )))) Without the lubrication of blood to properly anoint at proper variables – The machinery chugged and sputtered to a halt.

The streets caked with viscosities of skin and sinew – gelatin of bone and meat pumped by arterial sepsis. Clean. Pure. Sears of gunmetal perfumed on tongues. Product rotting on shelves without plot or purchase, writhing with fresh and effervescent life, singing the songs of flies.

The structures collapsed by the rings of their stumps, pumping always lead in their sutures, where true necessity reigned, hollow hearts followed hollow heads – as all were as gourds in the wind.

A hedge trimmer to a bonsai, an octopus to a cutlet. With ice to a sickle, whole densities of shoulder were shed in the shaving. Another turn of the waltz – into place, they fell, and into space, they rose.

Deprive themselves of them – for they have spoilt their generations, every vivisection floating like debris, around the miracle of these pollutants.

~!~

;w L

L o :

–

Cpt. Haruspex's tongue would slip when his hands would slight him.

Cpt. Haruspex's words would fail him – when by the slight of glance, his eyes would fall upon Cpt. Schreibermachen sipping coffee.

( o )

He could meet his own eyes. Meet his own eyes, though his breath weighed leaden on his chest.

Cpt. Psychorrhax stared. Stared and struggled to remember.

This man was no stranger to him. This man was simply nobody.

An anonymous face. An able body.

This person looking back had no past, no future, and knew himself to be simply a collection of discontinuous moments and fragmentary observations which did not cohere into a whole, less he strained his wrist and bloodied his hands in another effort to hold himself together.

Cpt. Psychorrhax could think of things.

Think them, though they contradicted what he knew.

There were times in his life – the life of this person staring back – where he could disappear into the bold colors and winding patterns of the tapestry of life, though when fire took to the gold lace and silk, he was not even ash, merely a solitary ember whirling as a feather on a draft which would vanish amongst the dust of the tiles, swept away as one iota of detritus to compose the weightless gray clump of pollutants in some bin.

He could reach out to this person. Press his hand to the glass and meet him eye to eye. From his quivering throat, some pressure passed his lips. It was as though the other man struggled first to speak –

but cut himself off so as not to interrupt.

This man – though his eyes were gentle – was far from an unimpressive specimen of manhood. Possessing of grace and athleticism, still robust but for a figment of the boldness of his brothers – the beauty in him could not be denied, though neither could it budge him. As upon a moonlit shore, the black waves would roll, and in the salt wind carrying the smell of campfires extinguished, sepulchral tongues could lick at bare feet buried in the sand – still warm from the sun so long past set.

[gagging on cock, sputtering, accelerating]

-- Please. Continue.

-- History is written by the winners, and to assume there are winners and losers is to assume a polarized view, not only of history, but of human thought and the universe from which it extends. As there are no winners and losers -- for the rules of any game could only ever be human dreams -- there remain countless histories unwritten where all the many things never here have already occurred, and what greater worlds were these we now see! We rescue them by our recollections which never were, and so enrich this world we know not to be our hell, for we could make it nothing but ... longing always for there to be somewhere more worse!

-- Might be I'm from Upside-Down Land Joe, but you thinkin backwards makes it happen forwards makes me wonder about all the upright things that'd never be :-- like what it'd be like if Laik were talkin!

\ . o

-- Welcome to the Laikaverse. Tonight on our show, we have the only man who ever mattered to me, and he should matter a lot more to you. Ladies and gentleman & all interesting packages I need to unwrap cause they make me wanna guess, tonight I am proud to present my one and only guest. My best friend & brother, Cpt. Laika Psychorrhax.

-- Yo Yacko. How's havin the only show worth watchin treatin ya?

-- I get all the views I deserve. All of them. I don't need your hearts. I rip em from the chests of all who oppose me. I'm a barbarian & a brute and I de-stigmatize cannibal psychopathy by bein cute in a bad boy way which Laik keeps makin boyband, all his fuckin smiles. I'm basically the best. Don't need to mention it. Know how bad you want this dick, bro.

-- Don't need fuckin seven or eight middle names. I like havin the two. I think it makes it less disingenuous when I wanna brand, which I don't need to cause I am arbiter of all possibilities which present themselves!

-- Well spoken, better sucked. We can actually talk about shit that bros care about at some length before I make you suck my dick. Sometimes I just wanna hear two dudes talk and suck each other's dick, bro. I don't wanna go to the fuckin ballet. Like the choreography is spellbinding, but it's too hyperstylized to be sexy. I'm not a fuckin rube, I just don't know why your dick needs an aerial shot bro. Can't the dick be a subject in its own right, does it have to be a dream-image in a propagandistic context? Holy fuck, what have words done to your brain, bro.

-- Why I wanna go to the ballet, I fuckin live it!

-- Dance, lil seducer-assassin. Smack you on the ass with my ruler before I make you gulp down a shot of poison, send you out into the Siberian winter to ice-skate in the light of the moon while Spider Willow watches from the barn. Cradling all her agricultural tools and her chemistry set, hollow and silvery knowin what she hath sown.

-- Holy fuck, bro. Fuck my ass and cuddle my scared shivering body! I don't need no comparative mythology course before you refuse to blow a load on my face cause that would deplete your heightened stoic life essence and dim the solar crown radiating out your gold-threaded dick-header! Fuckin wrap me in a myrtle jockstrap and crush my balls, bro! Shower me in the gold of all which is cloudy and stagnant and stifled! I long to be blessed by your brine, the salt of your labor and excretion! I'm not a fuckin black hole, Joe! I'm a fruit, I gotta burst and seed, bro.

-- Juicy lil pomegranate. Juicy lil apple. Juicy lil date.

-- Fuckin masticate me to make water into wine, bro! It's a fuckin miracle when you dismember me! Oh my fuckin God, bro. That's what you are to me, no fuckin irony, no fuckin academic obfuscation! You magnificent beast! Rip me to pieces and devour me! Splatter my blood all over these pristine white walls, that the scene of my execution should look as though Pollack convex within a Bollack! Mirror me in flesh to eyes dimmed by torpid flames into new universes of neuronal tumescence! Your fat engorged prick at which I long to suckle like the teat of a bull is the one true Source of My Life and I Am Slavish Before It! To me, your cock could never be a means to inflict pain or inject corrosion, for it is the very font of all which I most cherish. It is truly Life Itself!

-- Yeah, like I said. Know how bad you want this dick, bro.

( o )

Cpt. Schreibermachen – your brother Joseph, who we knew as Joey – craned the axal column of his vertebrae the full facsimile of a three-sixty degree turn which the stabilities of his anatomy would allow – craning the long and exquisitely tense musculature of his neck, inviting what tuggings they would allow to what sparse growth sprouted there – some scraggling and beckoning from the spots and scabs which shone as gold veining the granite jetsam of a cavewall – staring up into the winding cloudwell which was as a sea itself pouring out. A sea itself pouring out and around, peering through the looming densities, always peering where the sun still blistered brightest, for it bleached and acidified all which it could only relentlessly and unendurably hammer upon.

– It’s here, it’s here!

Joey bellowed ahead. Brux screeched from behind.

– Why, why, why? Why would it be here, Joey? It confounds all matter of public record and therefore common-sense, that it should be here! You are a lunatic! You are excitable, irritable, and contemptuous of the facts before you and all around you! You slumber lazily in a silence which is deafening for it is tragic, that your bountiful young intellect, all your talents and potential, should be squandered on such hysterical and meaningless fancies! My poor brother! My poor Joey! Nobody can help you! You’re lost and alone in this world, with adversaries all around and no safe haven to shelter you! For who you are and what you are able, you have been marked – doomed to wander, now and forever, spurned by all you may help and all who may help you! My poor brother! My poor Joey! Why don’t you ever call? We used to be so close? Would you like to talk about it? You know you’ll always be my special lil guy, Joey…

From the first of the free asymmetrical zippers on his uniform jacket – the clanging color and metal latticework which composed a public garden of pins, medals, ribbons & cokecaps blushing lushly from his lapel – he propelled with great rapidity a violet cloak of embossed and threaded fleur di lys glittering in spun gold, and with it obscured the chatter.

– Continue to ignore him at all costs! My revelations were revealed to me verily in a session late first this morning before last, then early this evening before this! My unconventional methods – the methods of which remain still too unconventional to explain this present moment, and perhaps still too many future ones at length! – was arrived upon for my frustrations with the hole always cleaved away by the cookie-cutter upon the sheet left me at last a ball of dough which was in its sum now entirety the residuals of the previous frames off which the gingerbread men did march ;– bunched up and rerolled anew, until there was only one but none! I was odds and sods, an oddity out committing sodomy and I wondered truly if I was as inverse as it was said, feeling this emptiness so persistently, for I knew once what spectacular shines burst forth within!

Brux was shouting. Shouting into the roaring wind.

– The more I talk over him, the more his scrawny lil book boy spinal nerves open to new possibility and influence will be confounded and disrupted –forced to talk in my same dilating and contracting rhythms, so all he attempts to exposit becomes as me; a yawning void, suffocating and expanding, crushing you inward, stupidly and glassily, as the puckering lips of a depthless carnival hare more orange'n gold!

Brux was shouting. Shouting as he rolled his cloak across the mud.

– They were revealed to me in a moment of meditation come trance come transcendent ecstasy as I lay pressed once more grinding against my brother in the dark night of our shared compartment, where I longed only to be one and deathless with him eternally ;– knowing myself as I could never be! Torn from the wrong side-in, always back out!

Cpt. Drottin strode forward. On his head, the marble idol flecked with streamers of freshly-oiled copper wire, the anemone-eyes of a harness and visor distended from the notched circuitry of its flexors.

– Bro, I can’t see shit with this shit on, bro.

To the sun, his eyes were pressed. To the horizons, his fingers reached, and some distant ether mist rose to take him in hand. His feet, firm and pressed against the ground, felt in the sutures of their bones what currents flowed beneath the earth, and from his love-nut – tight, swollen, puckering as his balls still fat and swollen with the seawalls he held back ; uncummed, uneaten, the fire in his guts and balls ;– eyes alit with leaky cock, hungering for potentials unearthly and obscure.

– All of this I know. No dissent may take into account what I know, when it refuses to see, refuses to hear – it is not good-faith criticism to call me a lunatic not for what I believe, but only for I can no longer believe not even in you, but what you think you need to obscure yourself!

From Brux’s lips emanated forth raspberries as he leapt into the protracted and violent syncopations of the worm.

– You’re approaching JRPG text-dump levels of unnecessary verbiage, Joey! I have no emotional connection to anything you say, for nobody talks like that, nobody thinks like that, nobody really thinks two dickless nerd boys getting it on (not offense to my good friend, Cpt. Drottin. I would gladly rub my dick bulge against yours were it not already too excruciatingly tender to merely hold your hand. Though I confess also … I see not the need to work up the strength to perform an action which I have fundamental contempt for, and I (full-disclosure) sometimes worry about you. Nevertheless, I hope impromptu public confessions are something you can live with, and like… things don’t have to get too weird between us, for you remain my brother and my heart’s most secretive longing and any dream of a life without you is but living death) … but um, no. Dickless nerd boys can rub their cute lil bumps together anytime, Joey! That’s why boys being into other boys is for losers! That’s why you deserve a wedgie! Fuck pussy, loser! Pussy, pussy, pussy! You talk too much! You’re the annoying one! You’re overplayed and nobody likes you!

The salt breeze through his hair, Cpt. Psychorrhax allowed his heart to flutter. The weight upon his chest poured fourth its waters as a goblet overflowing and all throughout the channels of him came the calm which rendered as a warm mist the ice which clotted in his veins.

An elbow to his brothers shoulder – the limitations of the framing did not reveal the cube on which he stood to gain elevation.

– He grows more enchanting by the day, Cpt. Schreibermachen.

He looked upon Cpt. Haruspex, and found him magnificent.

Joey looked away – rightfully, manfully – at more important things.

( o )

Woe to us, for whom petty games of tribe and warfare were enough.

Woe to us, for whom petty games of family and drama were enough.

Woe to us, for whom petty games of myth and nation were enough.

Woe to us, who bore conflict for we needed the pain of others to feed, lacking wholeness and center within ourselves, we who could know only kindling by friction, necessitating others be left fuel for the fire.

Woe to us, who are the inheritors of the world we have built.

\./

Cpt. Haruspex, falling to one knee, kisses Joey thrice across each boot, his ankle flexing and swerving to accommodate the gallantry of his lips. First on the caps, then on each side of the heel, coming back to the first, then ricocheting off the second, to kiss each underside the tip.

“Schreibermachen, my brother. For you I adore, and for the people of this land whose wandering eyes, whose listless and unruly minds, whose souls are as roaring seas eager to overtake the land; whose hearts are as frail songbirds fluttering in gilded cages – for you and for them, and for my five fellows and myself, I endure with you These Seven Woes.”

On both knees now, he slides forward with great rapidity. Stumbling onto his hands, pushing forward to propel himself first at ankle level, pulling himself up by his calves to press both hands firm against his ass. Burying his face in the taut black heft of Joey’s bulge. Pressing his tongue to the seam of the leather. Meeting his eyes with an intensity demanding wounding, for it was now in simple and absolute compliance.

//o\

Cpt. Schreibermachen, descending to one knee, extends his hand to caress the fold of Brux’s ear, the other to his shoulder, meeting him in the miasma of his eyes, to usher in a daybreak through the perpetual exhaust-starved ruin which was the marshland on which we built.

Oh, fog of discontinuity be now blown away to bring forth the vapor mist of things too variably complex to render before stalwart and primeval eyes! We who see best with eyes not sealed shut, but brought down in dustings of perpetual remembrance of what is right, so many present wrongs being errors wrought in hostile alignment we may brazenly disregard to laugh at the unfaithful who call themselves their inverse!

“Haruspex, my brother. Though contemptible at times, I could never hold you in contempt, needing what no man could offer, needing space which no man could own, living out strange contradictions on foreign shores. I could never hope to understand – all the hows and whys of what you are, and cannot stop you from feeling whatever you may feel, regarding me how you will regard me, as gifted as I am with all the gifts of self-discernment, association, style, and all other boons of life and liberty. For this, I say to you – the pleasure of this chastisement is minimal, I being a sadist worthy of my stiches – for I wish I needed not blood, wish you needed not to bleed. Wished I could crush all leeches of the earth, stake every vampyre to the soil by the base of a crucifixion, to leave all pawnbrokers as bricks on which to lay the foundations of homes. I would kill anytime I wish, and stop anytime I please. I implore you not to usher in a bloodbath, and yet I cannot prevent you. I have doomed you, by my refusal to enslave you, to a freedom which is enduring, and you know not how to be a beast, then rightfully spurn my pretensions! I say to you, I am no better. I say to you I am merely myself. I say I strive for truth above my ego as my highest aim. You insist all truth-seeking exists to gratify the ego, and I say – is egoism not then your highest truth? Tell me now, tell me true. What game lacks a winner, what contest lacks a loss. I will ask why you play and what you hope to gain, and to this think to myself – for all answers you believe will bore me – that no matter the outcome, in every game which I watch or I play, I learn always something knew!”

Eyes falling closed in the sweet sublimity of surrender, his bare teeth icy with the dead light half-subsumed by the fog of his breath, he slips into trance meeting that spotlight distant, now washing over his eyes and through the golden straw of his brother’s hair.

( o )

Through the pools of liquid crystal, we saw Our Lord Cpt. Drottin :– battered in his whities, still suspended in the winter air.

Daily we pray to him, to pantomime the consumption of his flesh for our daily bread. The wine flowing as overabundant richness from the soles of our feet: calloused and tawny as the blood we lapped from the stump of his neck and bronze-eyes of his mutilated palms.

Our hair we perfumed with the oils we let drop and shatter, to smear alike in filth and richness through our fingers. The gloss was ours to wear, pungent and sweet, cloaking us even as we reeked. In masks of floral brocade, we looked to one another in half-glances through the line, beckoning these violations we too might suffer openly. That we too may be marked. Be condemned. Revealed for those bounteous things we are.

Rippling as winds across the plain, the clouds veiling those shallow ponds of depthless eyes – his heartfelt and agonizing eyes We saw now drenched in tears with rivers upheaving pikes of mountainpeaks sutured shut to crystal ice :– His milky skin so flushed, the steam rising off his face as much His tears, Our spit, Our piss pouring into his still wedged-wide pi(ee) hole from tubes he chugs down deservedly and gladly.

The demolished balcony of his muscle-gut grows thicker and more ridge-like the more he attempts to maintain balance. Attempts to press himself up. Pressurize himself to grow through the very seams of his bones as he chugs – chugs, chugs – all his brothers have to offer.

Our only worthy substitute. Our one true Lord and Savior. Only through he could our pain be allevied, for by partaking of His was Ours lessered.

( o )

“This is the brick,” Cpt. Drottin rose the monolith which was this red rock, burst to dustclouds of a thousand fragments, from which we made our cornerstone. “I have learned love is Laika.”

This brick he bashed into the nose of the man closest him, the fourth of his own line. Shattering on impact, he stumbled into a wall most certainty there, which he could neither pass through nor scale, not with the great plateaus of his nostrils gushing onto his linens to compose the organic facsimile of a performance in splattering rosewood.

Laika … could only spit.

“What the fuck does that prove? How am I the asshole cause you brick your own guy in the face like a dumbass? Durr-durr. Yeah, buddy! It’s me! I’m the one who’s as insecure and insane as Brux! I’m a tiny dog-hearted lil bitch with no loyalty outside what my own ravenous and whimsical appetite dictates me! That’s why I sit there and not only let him constantly verbally abuse my boyfriend while I not only say nothing, but secretly agree while I masturbate furiously to his hate-filled comments all night long and thank God he’s got such little self-awareness he can spew such torrents of atrocious nonsense which nobody else got the balls to agree with openly like a smokestack out to skies all the more glorious only for how the carbon emissions refract the sun into the splendor of an oilslick trapping every rainbow in its grime to reveal a resinous amber of industrial runoff more fragrant than the bile of whales or pitch of trees!”

He gave Cpt. Drottin only more reason to smile.

“In what other ways may I make my speculations known but by opening your ears to the neigh-saying which never ceases from the horse’s mouth? Do you not see how the straw in which you stuff his emptiness fails to spin itself to gold? Your senses I have amplified as the record I have let play on repeat and all throughout the night the music still blares. Why do you not listen, Brother Joseph?”

( o )

" ... A dead child. Born dead, for his mother was dead the whole of his incubation. No life in her, none to feed his soul. Born hungry for the life she never lived. Though he breathes, he speaks, he stares and sees. Born dead. No woman I designed as perfect as she, grown from the finest selection of bones, hand-sewn with a flesh of my own conjuring from alchemical arts black as the inner cities out which I hail, could look upon him without shrieking, he being a monster and she but his mate.”

At last, a long exhale Laika let out. As a train departing a station would kick up a storm in winding tunnels in the dead of night, eyes bleary for it was still such a long way home, and you knew not how long you would need to wait in the cold and dark, the ambiguous eyes of strangers all about. The uncertainty of your being inviting probing, as if showcasing by hem of garter a wound you longed to see torn open that blind-eyes may glimpse in any spilling out what another wouldn’t say – half-begging the blind to reinforce those things you knew never to be – he found himself … uncertain how, somewhere far from the previous moment, half-aware of an apotheosis partially-recognized, yet dinged by the despair of how far he still had to go, how little progress he’d seemed to have made, having only recognized how lost he was.

( o )

“For some reason…” he says, “the bulletin is taking extra long today!”

Cpt. Psychorrhax , stationed across from him, sat cross-legged in a Lord Byron power-pose whose raw charisma more than overcame its innate faggotry. His uniform hung from him as though endowing its regal aura to the air, agitating each and every individual molecule to the barbarism of civility which was the eternally-becoming democratic process.

“Heads will roll,” he promises.

Brux, lipping the cap of his pen, which unbeknownst to him, the fourth on his left had earlier used to shove a hemorrhoid back up his own ass, stared dreamily and inkily wondering what pungency he smelled.

“You do somethin with you hair, Laik? Seem like you got a glow today!”

Napoleonically, he smiles. The light hitting him composes a frieze, burning itself into Brux’s retina for the rest of his miserable daze.

Neoplatonically, he recieves.

“Gosh, you’re so cute now that you’re all-grown up lil Laika! I just wanna pinch you. I just wanna pinch you and smack your cheeks and whip out my cock and bash with you wit it for bein such an arrogant lil runt? Who the fuck you think you are, cunt? Think you fuckin deserve to get dicked jus cause you’re so beautiful and manly and your every errant motion enslaves me to the daemonic divinity within you? Gosh, lookit me. I’m Laika! I’m gonna go brag over the air bout how I know the cutest and most adorable blackest-hearted lil Witch King. Ooooh. I put a spell on yoOoOuUuU. NoOoOoOow yer mOoOoOoinne. Get real. You see one fuckboy, you seen am I (em all). I already seen two today, so it’s like I seen the entire universe. Twice. Before lunch. I’m still not even hungry! Joey’s not the only one who can fast and develop the cognizance of a vegetable! I am the stupidest, laziest motherfucker I know and there is nobody alive more intolerable than me! I have a quarter Aboriginal Ruelandese ancestry which means only ¾ths of all the baseless fearmongering I spew is factually racist, while a whole fourth remains informed by the experiences of a former-fuller person of color!”

Laika didn’t need to speak. Before even the eight who were his could rise with him, the way they walked – he walking before them, said all he needed to say – said more than he could ever say with words.

Brux spat onto page when he stabbed it with his pen.

“You’re applyin the Lovecraft principle of describin the indescribable in too many words and applyin it to how you dissed me! Real fuckin clever, Laik! Yeah, guess you know what a fuckin hack author your boyfriend is real well out there livin the dream yourself! Two fuckin feet a proximity to you and I don’t gotta fantasize bout what it’s like to be an axe-murderer anymore! Durr-durr. I’m a drunken lunatic man-beast! I’m so stupid I’m gonna hack apart and eat everyone I love cause my artistic achievements are non-starters which utterly fail to mask my dwindlin irrelevance! Hurr-hurr! I shall never be eternally young and battered, ever-dying and reviving, renewed by my own darkness! I got no fuckin idea where these suggestions’re comin from, but what I do know is they got nuttin to do wit you, nor your supposed secretive means, you lil fuck!”

Onto the Arabic gardens, the patio.

Another day in paradise.

They sang for him, as they would sing for anyone.

( o )

“I like Brux when he’s manly,” he said aloud to himself.

Staring at his own shadow. Starring at the dancing grasses. The dancing grasses he longed to smoke, to feel himself lie back well-reclined within himself, knowing only good food and good music at tangerine sunsets of a perpetual dawning, well-alive and well-aware of the multitude within and without, wanting only needlessly, needing only to want.

“Sometimes he’s so beefy and broad. He’s uncouth with a violent strangeness which is dazzling as it is coarse. Like a horsehair tail sprouting flytraps or any manner of strange things which blur the vegetable from the insect, with a fuzziness at most arachnid.”

These words. There must have been truth. Some were certainly his.

“Why does he insist on being written as this absurd and outrageous sissy? Is it all Joey’s lies? Some of it has to be Joey’s lies. What percentage of the things that Joey says are totally lies? (I feel anyone who believes in proper syntax is a liar who wishes to modulate my biorhythms along some arbitrary pole. Drunk you is real you. Sobriety is the Lie that Hey Zeus the Wino sold to his habituates.) Brux can’t possibly be a bigger liar than Joey and Laika. In some regards, Brux simply has to be the lesser of two evils. Brux is so much better of a team bitch than Laika. Laika fucking sucks at being team bitch. Holy fuck. He either lies there and takes it or lies there and enjoys it lewdly and disgustingly or lies there and hates it and it’s literally rape but he won’t fuckin say anything. He won’t even be like …. ‘hey bro, stop fuckin rapin me!’ or 'bro i’m real fuckin pissed bout all those times you raped me.’ Naw, man. He’s just like … gonna sit there and hate you and not mention those times you raped him. Fuckin coward. Every time you rape Brux he won’t shut the fuck up about it. He goes over the PA and lies about how many times you raped him so now you don’t even know if it was an implanted memory or if you really did rape him. Why would anybody rape Brux? Does he get hotter when you’re drunk? Do you think he would look extra rapeable if he was sober and you were drunk? I think you should get real drunk at a time when you know Brux has to be sober and see if you rape him. Why would you do this as a thought experiment, just make it happen, bro. Big bro rapes Brux all the time anyway. Maybe Brux is insane because big bro rapes him too many times. Maybe Brux is insane because big bro won’t rape him. Brux is always tryin to get big bro drunk and big bro still won’t rape him. I think he definitely did fuck with your memory, either surgically or through hypnotic suggestion.”

( o )

Though you turned the page, and the song of its leaves rolled as waves over rifle fire in your ear, somehow you still heard him. Though he never spoke, never glanced up, simply thumbed his pen on the wood of the table – tapping his cap on the lattice of its top: vents of chainlink running parallel as spokes from the hubs of wheels of silver lizard scale.

“You like me a lot. Tempestuous as I am beautiful, I am all which the man you profess to love could never be, and so you wear your repulsion of me openly and deign to spurn me, spurning only yourself for you wish to lay encoiled with me arm-in-arm and call me brother. Chastising yourself only for you know in time you will succumb to my sick fancies and find yourself incompatible with who you think you are, unable to recognize any longer which inadequacies you adopted of me, and which were always your own, you so willing and desirous to bare the endowment of all I take of you, reveling in those spaces in which I leave you to fester.”

The things he couldn’t say – to which you seemed to give shape and clarity with a panache which needn’t be telling, any difficult projections casting only light on smooth, marred surfaces – simply elevated him, reductions though they were, for he was habitually enlarging himself in whatever confines you put him, as a foam perpetually boiling over.

“Hot pot with me, Joe. Give you a splash as you dunk em in.”

Dunk tank goon. He would make an excellent dunk tank goon. The target which would dispatch the lever to send him splashing ought be water-sensitive as the type you’d see in carnival squirt gun games, modified along the duration of a trough where men could shoot of their distillations, flowing down to the basin of the tank proper, filling with the piss in which he would inevitably drop and need to drink himself out.

“We could work so well together. Is it really good for yourself, for me, for our shared brotherhood or the people of our land, if you continue to find me arbitrarily repulsive for no reason other than to suit yer idle fancy?”

...

“I wish myself presently…” Joey decided, “To make myself unknown.”

Brux … rotated counterclockwise.

“My spine, my spine!”

Joey had taken Brux to the tabletop. Around his head, the crook of his elbow crushed him in suffocation, descending down his face, a rolling pin in a harmony of notes ringing out in creaking leather. Flattening him down to dough, he rested there, cap-off beside his plate unruffled, in a headlock as he looked up at you swollen and helpless, Joey smiling as he pried his legs apart with his ankles and pinned him by the arches of his calves.

#ashes of old flames #coming attractions

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byicarus · 1 year ago

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maddox had so quickly infiltrated his mind and took over. sydney couldn't go a day without thinking about his silky brown locks or those dreamy hazel eyes or those big, sweaty feet... he was practically addicted to him without even getting a real taste of him. it was no wonder why he'd devised such a plan to get maddox all to himself. thank god, it'd worked. coming to find out that maddox had felt the same the whole time, it was the sweetest thing that had ever hit sydney's ears. no man had ever had this effect on him before, and it had sydney wanting to get down on his knees and worship him like a king. "boo, that's no fun," sydney said with a pouted lip. "your secret's safe with me, daddy. i'll be the only one who knows you snore." he pressed a soft kiss to maddox's lips. yes, sydney loved the raunchiness and the filth, but he also wanted the sweet moments with maddox. it was far more than just sex for him. he wanted to be maddox's. he wanted to take care of him and nurture him and keep him happy. "don't give me a challenge, daddy," he teased. "maybe i'll be so bratty it won't work. maybe you'll have to bend me over your knee and whip me into shape before i give in." he smirked at the younger male, chuckling softly. he sighed softly into the curve of maddox's neck as his digits brushed up against his entrance. he would've given anything to feel those nimble fingers filling him up and stretching him out, but sydney was going to be patient. he was going to let all the filthy stuff play out to maddox's liking. he was going to be a good boy for maddox — for now, at least. "most of the time, yeah, daddy," sydney purred. "sometimes i might make you work for it, break a little sweat to get this pussy. feet and piss're my two favorite things to get me goin'... add in a few guys too, and i'd be going from brat to footslut in a matter of seconds."

"i mean, of course not. my tight little pussy'd be on display for 'em all... but i wouldn't be payin' them any mind 'cause i'd have my favorite thing in the world — your feet," sydney hummed. "'s damn right. i'd be lookin' at them with your toes in my mouth, tellin' them how much i love 'em. they'd all be wanting to get the same treatment, but i wouldn't even think about it. 'd be too busy goonin' out on your feet." he smirked, knowing that it'd just get maddox off more to have him completely disregard everyone else for him. sydney would've done that in a heartbeat if maddox gave him the order, but he'd also go wild over some random guys too if that was what his dreamy lover told him to do. "good. i want them to know i'm just your little footslut. that there's not a thing i wouldn't do to get a good whiff of those sweaty feet. they'll see me nutting all over 'em, and they'll hardly be able to look me in the eye," he went on. they both had plenty of fantasies they needed to live out, and this was the perfect to just lay it all out on the table. even the filthiest of thoughts, sydney was going to let it all flow from his supple, pink lips. he wasn't going to hold anything back — not for maddox. "i'll be so fuckin' overwhelmed, but in the best way. can't even imagine how rank they'll be, and i'll fuckin' love it. i'll be begging you to let me come in the locker room after every practice prolly. and i'll make sure i do the best job, so they keep buggin' you to ask me back. my lips'll be too good for them not to," sydney grinned. "sounds like a perfect idea, daddy. i'll dress up real slutty for you two. i'll surprise him in his office, shake my ass a little for him. maybe you'll walk in on me suckin' him off, and then you can breed me while i gag all over his cock," he started this little fantasy. "it'll only get filthier from there. you'll both kick your feet up on his desk, and i'll go nuts over 'em. i'll look so pretty lappin' at your sweaty soles... so pretty you'll both have to fuck me so bad you both slip it in me. and i'll keep you two goin' 'til you both have to use this pussy as your urinal. 'll make sure you're team captain 'til you graduate, mads." he nearly lost his breath just diving into the fantasy. his cock was spraining against his jeans, desperate to break free from the fabric prison. "i turn into a stupid little slut, it's true," he agreed. "all i can think 'bout is worshippin' those sweaty balls or feet or gagging all over some thick cock o-or getting pounded so hard i forget my own name. i wanna be a fuckin' mess by the end of the night." he knew that much would be accomplished, with maddox in control of him. "it's so hot, daddy. 's like marking your territory. you know i'd let you do any fucked up thing to me right in front of 'em all. if you wanted to yank me up by my hair and spit on my face, i'd say thank you. you can fuck me like i'm nothing but a cumrag, and i'll love i," he breathed out. "i know you're the one. you're gonna fuck me up... but y'know, i wanna work for it. if i have to beg for their piss, i wanna. i wanna be nothing but a fuckin' toy to be used. i wanna be fuckin' wrecked and used when you're all done with me, daddy. 'm just a fuckin' fleshlight urinal, you know that, daddy. put me to good use."

most people might've been disgusted by the comments that maddox spoke, but to sydney, they were absolute music to his ears. he felt so empowered, knowing that maddox had been dreaming up filthy little scenarios of them from the day he'd first seen him. he wasn't going to disappoint him — not now nor never. he was going to make him extra proud to call sydney his slut. "if only you'd tried your luck that first day, you could be sluttin' me out for weeks now. you could've been railing this fat ass or pissing down my throat weeks ago." his fingers toyed with maddox's brown locks, wrapping a strand around his index finger. "and that's why you're the best daddy a girl could ask for. 'm meant to take cock and service sweaty guys. and i'm gonna make sure all your friends know that — as long as my daddy says it's okay," he went on with a little nod. his eagerness was never anything but absolutely apparent. he wanted maddox to put him to good use. he was his little housewife, his princess, but most importantly, he was his slut that needed to be put to good use. there wasn't any scenario he could've imagined that he'd back out of. "i'm sure you do, daddy," sydney agreed with a nod. "i'm sure they'd give anything to sink their fat cocks in this juicy ass. bet they'll all give you an a in a heartbeat once they get a taste of me, daddy... and if they don't, i'll suck 'em off 'til they're pissing down my throat. if they're extra stubborn, maybe i'll have to bend over their desks and let you both wreck me with my face buried in some sweaty loafer... y'know, i think i'd prefer them that stubborn." he smirked as his hand found maddox's bulge, and he squeezed it lightly. "you'd be there of course, guiding me through it all, telling me how to be a true slut." maddox was going to be a legend around the sigma chi halls and spellman university. he'd manage to snag one of the hottest commodities on the market, brand him his own, and slut him out. sydney was in heaven to say the pure least. "i see it. every now and then... but nothing compared to how you look at me. fuckin' feel like you've found gold whenever you look at me," he admitted. "now, they all can get a taste of this pussy. of course, that's only if my daddy says it's okay. don't wanna give out this premium pussy just to anyone. you've gotta be on board with it too." as maddox went on about his feet, sydney's smirk just grew deeper. the dimples on his cheek became more prominent, deeper. he was clearly proud of himself just knowing that maddox could never say no to his sweaty feet. "just wait 'til i get back from practice one day, all sweaty and gross... you'd love 'em more then. you like my filthy fuckin' feet. bet you'd fuck 'em in a heartbeat if i'd let you, daddy."

sydney knew maddox's kind very well — strict top, masculine to a fault, cocky and arrogant, rough around the edges. at least, that was what he'd thought at first. he saw starting to see past the cracks of that tough exterior. he didn't have to pretend to be anything he wasn't anymore. he had sydney to embrace him and celebrate him like the real man he was. so what if he bottomed every now and then? it would only make sydney love him more, and he'd make sure that was crystal clear. of course, it wouldn't change a single thing either if he decided he never wanted to either. "i'll let you take 'em off. let you get them fresh, while they're still damp," sydney breathed out. "maybe i'll get you so gooned out that you fuck my sneaker while i fuck your pretty little face. 'cause i'll make sure they're so good and sweaty for you, you'll be wanting to do whatever i say." his fingers brushed against maddox's flushed cheeks, admiring them silently. sydney could only let his green eyes peer at him with nothing but complete devotion. he was going to sink with this ship, no matter what. he was banking on maddox completely. he was the one. "i know i can do it, daddy. i'll get you so worked up, you won't even think twice. you'll be begging to have my cock fuck that pretty little throat... and i'll be too good to you to say no to such a pretty boy," sydney whispered softly, tucking a strand of hair behind maddox's ear. "c'mon, daddy. you know i could slut you out if i really, really wanted to... and maybe i will one day. maybe i will wanna share you with a bunch of seniors, turn you into a little footslut for a bunch of guys," he teased. "but for now, i just wanna have that pussy all to myself. you know all i'll have to do is wave a filthy pair of socks in front of your face, daddy. maybe a used jock too... and you'll be on all fours, spreading those legs for me like i'm your daddy." sydney's arrogance was coming on strong, and he wouldn't have changed it for the world. he knew that maddox was definitely getting off on this. "because i'm not just anyone, daddy. 'm your baby girl who's gonna keep you fed, who's gonna give you her filthy socks whenever you wanna, who's gonna eat that fat ass 'til you're busting all over yourself. my tongue's gonna be so good, you're gonna be wondering how good i could make you feel with my cock," sydney promised. "no one'll ever take care of you like i do. i'll make you feel like the king you are, daddy. i'll even give you my dirty socks to sniff while i pound away at you. i'll make you feel so fuckin' good you piss all over yourself from the pleasure. you're gonna love it, daddy."

give sydney a spotlight, and he was going to bask in it. give him a bunch of sweaty feet to worship, and sydney was going to go buck wild. put them together, and you had the perfect storm. filth dripped from his mouth like it was nothing. his tongue was quick and eager, slobbering all over those sweaty toes like his life depended on it. he was doing his best to impress maddox, and so far, sydney know thought he was doing a bang up job. ace and benji stepped up to the plate, and sydney was going to do his best to ensure they got the best treatment, besides maddox, of course. after all, he needed to make sure they were ready to pound away at him like it was nothing with maddox. "want your feet. want your piss. fuckin' nut all over me... i don't fuckin' care how you all use me. 'm here to serve each and every last one of you. use me to your fuckin' likin'. my daddy'll tell you if you need to st-stop," sydney sputtered out between cleaning feet and sniffing them like a fucking whore. his eyes were rolling into the back off his head. he was a fucking mess, pre-cum smearing all over his abdomen. sydney was gooning, and there were plenty of cameras to capture it. 'the poor little slut's gooning. it's so pathetic it's almost cute,' some voice called out from the crowd surrounding him. sydney didn't give a damn. he loved it, too blissed out to give a damn who saw him. "i'm so sorry," he whined, pressing kisses to their feet. "i never would've been such a dick if i could've been down on my knees giving your sweaty feet tongue baths. god, i would've had a field day... but 'm gonna make it up to you all now. you get to use me like a fuckin' toy! i'm nothing but a little foot slut o-or your urinal o-or your cumdump... i'll make it up to you boys. my daddy and i'll see to it." the prospect of even more feet on his cum-smeared face was enough to make his cock twitch. he didn't know how he'd ever take any more, but a few more pairs of feet found their way to his eager tongue... and sydney just kept at it. he didn't care that he had slobber all over his face. he wasn't even aware. "gimme more," he pleaded. "gimme the rankest. i wanna fuckin' practically be knocked out by the musk. please."

"i want it, daddy. give me all those freshmen holes, give me all their cum, their piss, their feet, their cocks... don't wanna stop 'til i've made it up to 'em all," sydney gasped out. "i am just a hole for freshman cock, and i'll fuckin' tell it to 'em. i'm the fuckin' biggest whore you'll ever see, and i'm fuckin' insatiable. can't you see it already? 'm never gonna get enough, daddy." he was going to have a lot to explain to the rest of the fraternity in the morning, but that was fine with sydney. he had no qualms about being free in his sexuality. if anything, it'd just draw more people into their parties if they knew they could find him doing something slutty — and maybe maddox would let them have a turn. the thought was knocked out of his head by maddox's thick cock pounding into him. he moaned, his jaw hanging open with his tongue askew. his eyes were rolling into the back of his head. it was so overwhelming. that paired with maddox's lips around his sweaty feet, god, he could've busted all over himself. he would've been too lost to focus on anything if he hadn't heard benji's challenge. most of the other boys had jumped up to get ready to unleash their golden streams on them, leaving just benji and ace to rub their massive feet all over his face. it was his time to shine. sydney took a deep inhale of their sweaty feet — the perfect amount of masculine musk and filth to have his eyes rolling back into his head. "gonna treat you like kings. fuck, i was the shittiest to you two too... god, i can't wait for you to tear up my fuckin' ass. i want you to fuckin' use me with maddox 'til i can't fuckin' see straight. i don't want you to take it easy on me," sydney begged. "and don't get me started on these fuckin' feet. i could spend hours down here. only second to my daddy's. he got so jealous too, benji. was just treating you how you deserved to be treated 'specially after that mess i made." he was a little delirious probably, high off all the sweaty musk. his toes wiggled in pleasure against maddox's tongue. he was writhing in pleasure, moaning at the top of his lungs. he could see the crowd around him, cocks in hand. then came the golden streams raining down on him, and it was heaven. he tried his best to capture them all with his ajar mouth. he swallowed what could. the rest just cascaded down his sun-kissed features and defined chest. maddox just made it all the better too, jamming his cock into his tight hole like it was nothing. his second orgasm of the night was bubbling in his stomach. given permission, sydney let it unleash. rope after rope shot onto his abs, his whole body trembling from the power of the feeling. "th-thank you, daddy," sydney nearly wailed. what happened next, though, sydney couldn't have even anticipated. his white seed stopped flowing finally, and from the tip of his cock spurted a golden liquid straight into his mouth. sydney was truly defiling himself, swallowing his own piss and he didn't even really realize it. 'look at that little slut,' ace called out. 'such a little pathetic little cockslut he's his own urinal too. you gotta good little bitch on your hands, don't you, mads? fuckin' ruin that hole, bro! breed that shit 'til he's cryin' and pissin' all over himself.'

maddox knew that sydney was made for him—plain and simple. any uncertainty was gone, replaced by an undying desire to do everything in his power to please sydney. when maddox first approached sigma chi's intimidating double doors, he did so without an idea of what he was getting himself into. he was going in blind and naive, sculpted body on display for the curious eyes of seniors who planned on making his life a living hell. unbeknownst to maddox, a devious sydney greene waited in their midst—though his eyes were far more devious. maddox felt like his fate was sealed the moment their eyes met, and sydney hadn't left his mind since that first encounter. "it won't be that kind of punishment, you little slut," maddox chuckled. "more like... no access to daddy's cock for a week—no feet, either." his own hands fell to sydney's hips, palms flattening over the curve of his plump ass. maddox couldn't get enough of sydney's body, and he didn't think he ever would. every inch of his skin was delectable, unbelievably soft, supple, and warm to the touch. anyone who happened to glance in their direction would see that sydney was the only thing that mattered to maddox. "i know how to whip you into shape, princess. all it takes is a sweaty sock or a whiff of my balls," he said with a smirk. maddox slipped a hand between the boy's pale globes, circling his tight rim with the pad of his finger. he would have loved nothing more than to fall to his knees in the middle of the party and devour sydney's ass until he had nothing left—but the night couldn't come to an end just yet. "is that all it'll take for you to behave? just a whiff of daddy's feet or his piss flooding your throat?" maddox asked, smirking from ear to ear. "i have a few more ideas to get you to behave, but i might have to invite a few more guys in for that... can't mouth off with four pairs of sweaty feet on your face, can you?"

"might have the game on, but i don't think anyone will be paying attention," he chuckled. "it would probably turn out a lot like tonight, princess. they'd all start filming you, and all you'd do is look right into the camera and suck on daddy's sweaty toes... they'd be so disappointed that they don't get to join us, but that's too bad. they don't get you when they want, they get you when i want." maddox clung to every word that left sydney's lips, already putting the pieces together in his mind. "i'll make sure my feet are extra sweaty for you that day, just to make sure you'll spend plenty of time cleaning 'em. i'll turn you into a total gooner in front of all my friends—they'll never look at you the same again," he quipped. his hand was placed on the back of sydney's neck, holding the boy's face in the crook of his neck. maddox could feel sydney's warm breath on his skin, could hear that he was breathing in his musk. no one had ever been so hooked on him before—it gave him more confidence than he had ever dreamt of. "lucky for you, the team and i are always sweaty after practice... especially if coach has us running laps all afternoon. you'll have the nastiest group of jocks, all hyped up on adrenaline and ready to do whatever filthy things you've fantasized about. can you imagine how you're gonna feel, baby? you'll be in the middle of all of us, unable to think about anything other than rank feet and throbbing cocks," maddox said, fingers idly stroking along sydney's sweaty hole. "y'know, i have caught coach staring at our asses in the locker room... maybe that's exactly what he needs to loosen up a bit. maybe i'll send you into his office after practice and have you spread out on his desk? you think a little time with just me, you and coach would get me on his good side, princess?" every time maddox thought they had reached the limit on how filthy they could be, sydney went and proved him wrong. he had clearly underestimated the other, and he was being proven wrong in real time. "let's be realistic, princess... daddy's cock might be your favorite, but when you're in a room full of hot, sweaty guys who all wanna fuck you—you go a little bit dumb, and that's okay," maddox teased. "tonight just the start, but i've gotta prove to you that i'm the one, right? what better way is there than to use your tight little cunt as my own personal urinal while you've got two more cocks spreading you wide open, baby? maybe, if they're good, i'll let them piss in your pussy, too. you can walk around all day with all three of our loads, and our piss, sloshing around inside of you."

maddox had already caught onto sydney's game, and he was more than ready to play. it didn't bother him to think about sydney slutting himself out to other guys, as long as he was involved in some way. he would make sure that everyone they invited into their fun was worthy of sydney's magic, that they could keep up with his filthy mind and take him to places he'd only dreamt of. in the end, maddox knew sydney belonged to him—no one else would even come close. "i knew you were meant to be a slut the moment i laid eyes on you. i didn't know that you'd be so willing right away, but c'mon... you have the kinda face that needs to be caked in cum, and the kinda ass that needs to be taking cock all night long. you deserve it all," maddox gushed. "i'm gonna make sure you have it, too. i'll have you spread and slutted out for the team, for the frat, for anyone who asks and has a cock big enough to please you." maddox never knew that he was so into sharing, but that wasn't the only thing that sydney had taught him. he'd watched porn enough to know that it was hot, but it wasn't the kind of thing he thought would ever happen to him in real life—but there was something about sydney. he was proud to call sydney his, and it was written all over his face. even as his face was smeared with the sweat from freshman feet and his own saliva, maddox had never been so attracted to anyone in his life. "and that's exactly how it should be, right? gonna use your slutty cunt to make my freshman year one for the books, princess," maddox smirked. "my friends, my teammates, my coach... whoever's got something to offer, i'll be offerin' up your services in exchange. you'll be on your knees in my classrooms, gagging on my professor's cocks or burying your face in their rank loafers to get me better grades. i do have a couple of hot ones, y'know." he could hardly believe how into it all sydney seemed, but he guessed he should have known by now. "i know you'd love it, baby. you've probably noticed how the professor's look at you, how everyone looks at you. you've been teasing everyone at this school for years, and now they finally get a turn with you 'cause i own that little cunt now... i'm gonna be the mvp of spellman," maddox laughed. he knew that their little arrangement would benefit sydney just as much as him—maddox could see that sydney had been waiting to let this side of himself roam free, and he was going to help him do that. if someone wanted a turn with him, all they had to do was ask nicely—and maybe offer him something in return. "that's right, and i'm gonna use that to my advantage," maddox smirked. "gonna have your daddy's face buried in your sweaty feet every night, no matter where we are. we could be sitting on the couch in the middle of a party, and if i want 'em, i'm gonna have 'em."

not only had maddox never given up control, he'd never even thought about it. if he was a strict top, it was easier to pretend he was straight—but with sydney, he didn't want to pretend anymore. maddox wanted to give sydney all of him, even the parts he usually kept under lock and key. if sydney wanted a chance to ruin him, then that's what he would get. it made maddox nervous to think about the places sydney could take him with a simple stroke of his finger or a whiff of his sweat-soaked feet, but he was ready to let go. "wanna be there when you finally take them off, baby... wanna smell them fresh from your shoes, wanna feel how nasty your feet will be against my face after wearing 'em," maddox breathed, his cheeks flushed bright pink. "you know i'll be in the locker room with your socks against my face, beating my fuckin' cock like it owes me money. you'll have to show me how naughty i am for busting my load without you, and have me goon off your cock instead... you think you can do it, princess? you think you can use that pretty cock to turn daddy's hole into a cunt?" maddox was tempting the boy, seeing how far he could push him before he unleashed a brand new side of himself that perhaps even he didn't know existed. "what's next, princess? you gonna try slutting daddy's hole out to your senior friends? gonna show those idiots that you're the one who finally got me to submit? i don't think you have it in you, angel," maddox said with a smirk, knowing what he was opening himself up to. sydney wasn't the kind of boy that liked to be doubted—and maddox was doing exactly that. it was all just for fun, of course. maddox just wanted to see if he could push him a little further. "maybe i do, princess... if you want a chance to taste your daddy's sweaty jock cunt, you should have to beg for it," he sighed softly. "i've never given it to anyone, even guys that swore they could rock my world if i gave them a shot... and a few girls who were particularly eager. 's not been touched by anyone, not even me. why should i let you?"

the freshman were going wild, and sydney was basking in their attention. it was exactly how maddox imagined it—only better. his newfound sigma chi friends were focusing all of their energy into wrecking his new toy, and maddox couldn't have been happier. "you hear that, guys? he doesn't want you to take it easy on him. especially not you two," maddox echoed, nodding toward benji and ace. "if you want to help me destroy his hot little cunt, you better show him what you guys are capable of. he knows your feet are nice and sweaty, but he wants you to use him like the fuckin' sigma chi urinal. so you better not let him down." the rest of the room was either recording or going live, and he could only imagine the filth that was flooding those comments. by morning, sydney was going to be known as spellman university's number one cumdump—and fuck, if maddox was not excited to use that to his own advantage. "there you go, princess... praise them, tell 'em how sorry you are for how you treated them. make sure they all know you never would have been so cruel if you would have known they had such yummy, sweaty feet for you to worship," maddox snickered lightly. they seemed to be invigorated by maddox's words, smearing the fresh loads all over his face and feeding it to him using their toes. maddox tuned in once sydney's words were cut off, and he'd never seen anything so filthy before. sydney looked as though he was living out his own personal heaven, and it only made him want to give him even more. "looks like he needs more, y'all. i want you all lined up and ready to use my little footslut... if you went for a jog today, or have been wearing the same pair of socks for a few days, you get to go first. those are your favorite, aren't they?" maddox asked as more freshmen surrounded the coffee table.

"you're gonna have to do a lot more than just that, princess... you're gonna have to eat all of our asses, and much more. you're gonna be a little slut for the whole freshman class of sigma chi, and your friends are gonna wonder what the fuck happened to you—what are you gonna tell 'em when they ask why you're actin' like a fuckin' hole for freshman cock?" maddox teased. he knew that sydney would be more than happy to explain to his friends his true calling, but he wanted to hear it from his lips. maddox couldn't help but to want to dig deeper into the other's mind, to find out why exactly he was so willing to be used for their pleasure. "don't know if brat is the right word, but we'll see... how are you going to whip me into shape, princess? what kinda tricks do you got up your slee—" maddox was cut off the moment those sweaty feet made contact with his face, hands curling around the older boy's ankles to press them firmly into his nose. benji was free to have his fun without maddox intervening, as the boy was so entranced by sydney's feet. "what was that, syd? i couldn't hear you with all those toes in your mouth," benji teased, slapping sydney's cheek gently with the sweaty sole of his foot. "you loved my feet so much you were willing to risk pissing off your daddy, d-don't be so shy now... and show ace's some love, too—he's got a huge fuckin' cock, and it's gonna feel so good wrecking you later." maddox heard everything, but he couldn't pull himself away from sydney's musk and tight hole to comment. his hips snapped forward, making room for his fat cock to stretch and pound sydney's eager cunt with ease. thrusts were erratic as the younger boy sucked sydney's toes through the sweaty fabric, the room filled with filthy sounds of skin on skin as he lived out his wildest fantasies. the four boys were using sydney as a urinal, and soon the others who'd gathered around were joining in. there were at least six guys surrounding them, soaking him in warm piss—and sydney was loving it. "fuckin' squirt on daddy's cock, princess," maddox said, voice full of grovel. he could barely pull himself away from sydney's feet to speak. "i know my cock is fuckin' you up, hittin' that spot so fucking good... cum for me one more time. bust that load all over your pretty body, then i want you to clean it up and suck it off your fingers."

#sydney greene.#thread: sydney & maddox 001.

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ofpineapplesanddawns · 2 years ago

Note

feisty, i like that :)

Peter Vincent x Thorne Jamison, I miss them🥰🥰🥰

Warning: these two are idiots, public stuff, they're both drunk

On with the fic!

Peter hissed when his back was painfully shoved back against a column in the club, the people around them not seeming to care or even notice. He glared daggers at the hot, stupid man who was trying to kiss him, but completely missed, nearly pulling them both to the floor when he grabbed Peter's shirt.

"You..." He slurred, righting Thorne. "You are so fuckin' wasted, told ya you couldn't handle that many jello shots!"

"'s been a while since 've done it!" Thorne laughed and collapsed against Peter, pinning him against the column again. The music around them was loud and obnoxious, but that was normal for Vegas night clubs.

"Mmmm, last... last time I had 'em, I was suckin' 'em off this one really hot chick's a-"

"Stop! Don't wanna know about your past dirty deeds!"

"Oooh, those weren't done for cheap, I can tell ya that!" Thorne was laughing again, that cute one with the snorts he does when he's really amused. Peter hated how he recognized that in his drunken state.

"God, you're stupid."

"You like that in a man."

"Apparently, I do." Peter said, but Thorne was kissing the life out of him before he could say anything else. He groaned over the awful dubstep playing now, wrapping a leg around one of Thorne's own, his hands wandering up the man's shirt, clawing at his back.

Fuck, they needed to get back up to his penthouse or else they were gonna get into some serious trouble here on the club floor.

But then again, Thorne might be into that.

He shoved the musician away, stumbling a little. "No, no." He said as Thorne came right back up to him, trying to latch onto his neck like a leech. "Not here, moron! We're gonna, ya know, gonna... uh..." Fuck, his head was spinning. "Get kicked out! Again!"

He pushed at Thorne again. "Stop gettin' me banned from clubs cause you keep thinkin' with the head in your pants and not the one on your neck, idiot!"

"Feisty," Thorne said with a waggle of his eyebrows, "I like that, sweetheart."

"I know you do." Peter rolled his eyes, shocked that he was being the adult here, for once. Gross. When they got back to the penthouse, he was going to show this man how feisty he could be.

He got a very excited reaction from Thorne when he said this aloud and suddenly he was being pulled to the exit.

#thorne jamison x peter vincent #john's drabbles

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kingdaddydaichi · 4 years ago

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Pre. Lime. Patrón.

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x Reader || nsfw

🚫 MINORS 🚫 DO 🚫 NOT 🚫 INTERACT 🚫

Warnings: alcohol consumption, semi-public oral sex (m receiving)

You were haphazardly filling a couple of shot glasses with Patrón as Bakugou stood behind you, trapping you between his hard body and the countertop, his hands on either side of you. Your efforts were thwarted by the sensation of him rolling his hips against your butt.

The music was loud, it was relatively dark, and the few people who were also in the kitchen were too focused on either making out or speaking in raised voices to the crowd in the adjacent room to notice.

When you'd finished pouring, you looked at him from the corner of your eye and said, “Ready when you are”.

“Yeah?”

You hummed. He reached between your bodies - into his pocket maybe? But for what? - before bringing two of his fingers up to your mouth.

“Lick”, he commanded.

You swirled your tongue around his salty fingers, then bit into your lime wedge before throwing your shot back. You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. “Fuck! That tastes good! What was that?”

He threw back his own shot with actual salt. “My pre”, he rasped in your ear.

Your mouth fell open. “Your what now?”

He grinned, licking the outer edge of your ear with the tip of his tongue. “You heard me”.

You moaned, “Oh my fucking god, Katsuki, are you serious?”

He chuckled mischievously and hummed. “You want some more?”

You could hardly believe yourself. “...Yeah”.

“Line ‘em up”.

As you attempted to pour the shots, you felt his hand once again slip between your bodies and re-emerge with the strand of precum he’d collected from the head of his hard cock, groaning as he rubbed his aching tip in the process. You sucked his salty fluid from his fingers before doing an about face, the tequila shots forgotten. You stood on your tip toes and kissed him as he wrapped his arms around you and pushed his hard cock against your thigh.

“I wanna suck your cock, Katsu. Now”, you demanded against his ear.

He smirked, “As much as I would love that, now’s not the time nor the place”.

“Wanna bet? Come with me”.

You pulled him by the hand into a nearby room, dark and devoid of other people, and pushed him against the wall before dropping to your knees.

“Ah fuck, that's hot baby…” he muttered. He watched as you worked his belt open, followed swiftly by the fly of his jeans, rubbing his prominent erection in the process. “(Y/n), wai- ohhhh shit...“

His weak protest was cut off when you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock and started slowly pumping his shaft in your fist, humming around him in satisfaction. You had been hungry and his pre had been an appetizer, a tease. Now you wanted your mouth stuffed with his cock, your throat coated in a heroic load of his cum. The full fucking course of Katsuki Bakugou.

You worked him over as his thighs began to shake. “Mmfuck baby, if you k-eep s-suckin' me like that...ah shit!“

You relaxed, allowing the head of his cock to press against the back of your throat with every pump of his hips. Your saliva and his essence mixed together to form a long, wet descent from your chin and the underside of his shaft towards the floor beneath you. His movements became more frantic along with the breaths that escaped his mouth.

Then you moaned.

The first eruption of his hot semen hit the back of your throat, your mouth soon filling with the rest of his release. You'd be lying if you said you didn’t gag a little from the force of his orgasm, but you took it and drank every ounce of him down like a pro.

Katsuki rarely whined like he did that night. “Nahhh fuck, baby. Drink my fucking cum, just like that. Yeahhhh...”

#katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #katsuki #katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #kacchan #katsuki thirst #dynamight

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ampleappleamble · 4 months ago

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i'm not finished yet. (that's what she said heyooooooo)

who sucks at suckin it? whose tongue just doesn't get it done?? who makes em floppy when they try to get sloppy???? why am i doing this?????? YOU DECIDE

hey as long as we're all Nastyposting remember when josh sawyer said that literally every single companion and sidekick in both Pillars games canonically can, will, and/or does eat pussy/suck dick. king shit

#is this the worst poll ever? or the worst pillars of eternity poll ever?

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tartrazeen · 3 years ago

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Nellis Fic - The Friendships

TW: slight sprinkle of some accidental racism

Word Count: approx. 4270

Summary: one-shot - pre-Nellis - slice of life/found family/humour/a bit of fluff

As all seven survivors are reunited, Nick has himself a new best friend. That means Ellis has a new problem: jealousy.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41697096

“So –” Aw, hell. “– you and Nick seem pretty close.”

Louis was talking.

Again.

“Yep,” Ellis said back. “Pretty close.”

He kept walking along.

“That’s great –” Mm-hmm. “ – lucky. There were only seven of us! Who would’ve thought we’d make so many different connections?”

Mm.

Mm-hmm.

“Yeah.”

He was hopin’ real hard that that’d be the end of it. Ellis wanted to walk in peace and pick through the stuff that looked fun – even if it wasn’t much, he realized, like he had realized ten times so far.

Everything here was covered under dust or busted rubble now. It threw on another layer of stale gray over what was already stale and gray – and dead.

The creepy, plastic ferns kept on eyein’ him from the corners, suckin’ up the light that was trying to squeeze in past the yellow, hanging blinds.

It figured this’d be where Louis wanted to search. A ‘tax firm’ was exactly the dumb idea he’d stick Ellis with like it was serious.

“It’s funny how -” Aw, hell. “- like that. You and Francis make sense, and I know why Nick and I clicked -” Which made one of ‘em. “- probably swap tips on how to keep them from complaining. I thought with Francis, the list ended at 'you can’t’, but you proved me wrong!”

Mm.

“Let 'im talk, is all,” Ellis said, in case later he had to prove he’d made some effort. He did that while kicking at some trash can in case it had any stuff in it. No dice, Nick wouldn’t say, 'cause the man wasn’t much for dice. He was more of a cards guy. So Ellis’d thought. Louis ‘proved him wrong’ by day two. “Hey, s'there somewhere better we can look? Coach said to come back with useful stuff, and none’f this seems…”

He turned a corner and found the first of many rows of boring cubicles. He could hear the sea of staplers, paperclips and unplugged phones waiting for him. Maybe a granola bar.

“Well, the way we’ve been -” 'We’. Louis and Zoey? Louis and Francis? Nope. “- the last place anyone would be in a zombie apocalypse, but still somewhere you could hide out in for at least two days if you had to. Once I do, Nick guesses where the people would go and finds the five universal hiding spots everybody seems to use for their 'personal’ supplies. You know how people use the word ‘password’ as a password and think they’re being clever? The number of bottles in the average American office ceiling makes you think -”

Ellis squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, hoping that’d magically clear up his head.

It didn’t. But Louis did suddenly start winding down.

“… Maybe that – uh… Maybe that doesn’t work when Nick isn’t here,” the man said, like he was embarrassed from his goin’ on. “But – I mean, technically, that was only an example. And there are many, many ways to find supplies! Zoey and I like to –”

Well, there he went.

And went. And went.

Ellis slung his rifle and bag off to the slide so he could open up some desks. Louis hovered, eventually finding more ways to brag about how fun it was hanging out with Nick.

Nick, the one who’d been teasin’ Ellis for being all perky and happy every minute, and for never shuttin’ up ‘cause he’d get excited by something and couldn’t quit from talkin’ everybody’s ear off. That Nick thought this Louis was great. ‘Two evil peas in a pod,’ was Zoey’s not-that-sarcastic opinion.

“So,” Ellis cut in on whatever story Nick’s best friend was rambling through, “you want me to find a ladder and check the ceiling?”

“Well - no -” Ugh. “- an example. I’ve tried, but they seem to be sneaky, specific parts of a ceiling. I don’t know how he does it, but he did say he wanted to be a truffle pig when he was growing up.” Louis laughed. Ellis kept searching the desks. “… Anyway, what we’d want to do is look for things that are low and accessible. Health kits, lockers, kitchens, bathrooms – the handy supplies people would have in an emergency, but forget to take once – uh… there’s a zombie. So - the boring things. Not that boring is bad, but –”

Somebody tell him this wasn’t what he’d been putting Coach, Ro, and Nick through. Louis was hopped up like this was his first day out or something. When Ellis got carried away, at least it was with a story that’d actually end. And he was happy like that, with the four of them together ever since Savannah. They’d had a family with each other for damn near four months. All the excitement he’d felt when they reunited with Zoey, Francis and this other one had drained away over just six days.

Tomorrow would be seven days. Then eight. Then nine…

“These ones are done,” Ellis said, moving to the next row of cloned desks.

Here he’d thought the problem would’ve been between Nick and Zoey.

Well, it was. Zoey didn’t like Nick, and unlike Ellis, she made no effort to hide it. Nick only seemed to be holding back on account of how Zoey was ‘still a kid’ and ‘just a girl’. That last one’d been Zoey’s guess, but the truth of it probably wasn’t far behind. So Ellis and her would chat about that when they went on searches together, tryin’ to cheer her up while Louis took Nick to poke through the damn post office and flower shops’n’shit.

“– somewhere else.”

“Pardon?”

‘Cause his mama’d made sure to raise Ellis as polite as all hell.

But he must’ve said it louder than he thought he’d had, ‘cause Louis was making that face he always made before he would glance at Coach and Rochelle. That pissed Ellis off, ‘cause as much as he wouldn’t ask what it meant exactly, Louis lookin’ at the two of them but never his-new-best-friend-forever-Nick, it was only the two of them here now. And Louis had been the one insisting that they team up today.

The others weren’t far. Louis could leave if Ellis made ‘im so uncomfortable. Just ‘cause he wasn’t jumpin’ around like every day was a party anymore, it didn’t suddenly make anything bad. And anyway, the man liked Nick but the problem Louis had was with Ellis?

He shut that drawer closed extra hard.

“… We could look somewhere else,” Louis offered, sounding cheery but strained as well. Ellis looked up to see him rubbing the back of his bald head like he was in a cartoon, confused by everything goin’ on. “Where do you normally go?”

On his own, or with Nick? Because if it was with Nick, then ‘nowhere lately’.

“Oh, you know,” Ellis said. “Wherever.”

Movie theatre. Arcade once, though that didn’t last for long 'cause everything’d been off and too loud to turn on again. Pool hall. Both kinds of pool. Bingo hall, which was a whole other type of hall. Good places with better shit to find.

Louis was probably thinking, ‘The DMV should sure have shorter lines.’ And wouldn’t that be exciting for him?

Skip.

“Well…” Again? “Let me know. Nick said you were in a band –”

“Y’know you could’ve asked me about myself ‘stead of getting all your news from Nick,” Ellis pointed out. “‘Course I get that he’s the only one you’ll talk to, so I can see why you’d think it’d have to be from Nick, but I’ve been known to share a few details in what’s traditionally called a ‘conversation’. This row’s done.”

And he walked off to find the kitchen ‘cause it wasn’t like there were any zombies here anyway.

Maybe that was why Louis kept picking these places.

Figured.

The kitchen had snacks, which was something. Granola bars, obviously, and tea and instant coffee and such. Someone here had brought in protein powder – that wasn’t half-bad to find. Ellis’d use it, Coach’d use it, Nick might, Francis probably would. Louis? Who cared. That man could have the fuckin’ granola bars.

“… Hey, man.” And there he was. Ellis was gonna go ahead and answer ‘no’ on whether Louis’d checked the rest of the cubicles. “We should talk…”

“Sure,” Ellis spoke, poking through the cupboards under the sink. Because ‘effort’ after all. “Be fast ‘cause I’m gonna crack open that fridge in a bit. It’s gonna stink up the whole place.”

He wasn’t lookin’ behind him since he had to focus on this – found some cleaning stuff that Nick would like – but he did hear Louis sigh and leave again. So that was problem gone for a little while.

Somewhere else, Nick, Coach, and Zoey were searching together. That couldn’t’ve been any better than it was over here. Ro and Francis had gone off in a third direction, which didn’t make sense, since the point of this was to ‘mix up the groups’ for once. Ro and Francis already got along great. They’d picked right back off from where they’d left it on that bridge. Hell, they should’ve been with him and Louis. Ellis could’ve used the support.

Coach, too.

Poor Coach. He was out dealing with all of that.

Last night, someone’d said that Zoey’s dad was a cop, and like he always did, Nick made a little joke that only he’d thought was funny. “Shocking,” or something like that. He hadn’t mean too much harm by it, Ellis’d tried to explain, but Zoey sure as hell had a lot she had to ‘explain’ to Nick first.

The mix-up had been Coach’s idea to get ‘em all moving like a single team. He’d said if they didn’t, they wouldn’t last much more than a week. And Ellis got that – ‘cause those three thought Nick was at his wit’s end too, but four months would’ve taught them Nick had more of his fuse to burn and a bigger storm coming when he finally did blow. Best to clip things off now. Nip it in the bud.

But then Louis said he’d take Ellis, and everybody agreed ‘fore Ellis got out a word.

And yes, he knew what that meant. ‘Raised polite’. He’d be gettin’ slapped if he’d been back home. If nothing else, Louis was a guest, and Ellis was failing to be a host of any kind.

That was hard, though, when the only one Louis wanted to be hosted by was Nick.

“Shit.” He took a breath and shut his eyes. He took a second breath, ‘cause he couldn’t his mama proud without air, and then went to put his head outside of the stuffy kitchen. “Louis. C’mere. Let’s talk.” He paused. “Please and thank you.”

There. That was better, he guessed.

Louis popped up from where he’d been back to rifling through the other cubicles. With a nervous or tense or… ‘uncomfortable’ smile, the man walked over to the kitchen and stood in front of him.

Their heights made themselves a little clear.

Ellis uncrossed his arms just because he wasn’t trying to be rude, not because he felt short or anything.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Ellis said. “I’m sorry for being a dick.”

“Oh,” Louis said back, still standing and waiting. “That’s… Thank you.”

Yep.

“Yeah. So – I’m guessing you know why I was,” Ellis breezed through. “And I’m guessin’ I can’t change that, meaning I promise I will – just… learn to accept it. And adjust.” That didn’t sound nice at all – he wasn’t even going to kid himself on that, and he jumped in before Louis finished whatever sentence it was he’d started to say. “I’m not mad at you or anything. You’re fine. You seem nice. You and Nick get along – great, I’m happy about it. There’s seven of us now but the rest’f the world’s still dead, so… Connections, right? Gotta take care of those.”

Good talk.

No, it was shit, but Ellis didn’t wanna risk digging a hole to bury himself. Leave it to Louis, of course, to insist on that anyhow.

“Ellis,” the other man said, in what sounded like him gearin’ up for a long-ass discussion, narrowing his eyes in a different suspicion that – for a moment – almost made Ellis want to go back to their earlier do-not-discuss kind. “Nick and I are friends.” He’d emphasized that last word. “You… understand that –”

“I understand it and I said I was great with it,” Ellis reminded. “It’s great you two are buddies. He likes people, I like people, now there’s more people for everybody to like, and I think that’s dandy.”

He had never once in his life said ‘dandy’. That was a new low. And his arms were crossed again. He uncrossed them, ‘cause it made no sense to be wrapped up like he’d been called out of class for Keith burnin’ something down.

The kitchen had a tiny table with four tiny chairs. Louis answered Ellis’ answer by walking to them, and turning one in Ellis’ direction.

That meant ‘sit’.

He sighed with the entirety of his chest, but then he sat, definitely feeling like he was at school.

Never had he so badly wanted to hear a Jockey on its way. No dice. Even those knew that this place sucked.

“I get it,” Louis said, starting this off. “You and Nick –” God, that sounded terrible coming out’f him. It would’ve sounded bad from anybody but especially Louis, especially like this. Ellis’ foot began to bounce, which was a sign that he was not in the mood to be enjoying any of it. “– get in the way. We’re friends. Only friends, enjoying the chance to have a new conversation with new people.” Foot was shakin’ the table. “Come on, Ellis. Aren’t you always telling stories about that guy? Kevin –” Nope. “– something? Now you have three more people to share them with, and we’ve never heard them before.”

“So what you’re sayin’ is, Nick’s sick of me anyway –”

“That isn’t what I’m saying –”

“Well.” Ellis sat back in his seat, arms crossed. “Agree to disagree.”

He didn’t feel bad about it. ‘Agree to disagree’ was the nicest way Ellis could’ve said ‘go fuck yourself.’

… He felt a little bad about sayin’ ‘go fuck yourself,’ but not enough to sit up again or withdraw such a statement. He’d meant every word.

Louis and his bald, shiny head, with dust on it from this dusty-ass land of tax-cubicles and plastics ferns, lightly placed his palms onto the table between them. He looked like he was bracing himself for a big point to make, and Ellis stopped bouncing his foot, bracing right back at him.

What was he gonna say? ‘Childish’? ‘Petty’? ‘Dumb’? Maybe a good ol’ ‘Stupid Hick Redneck’ or whatever else he finally got Nick to agree on again. After all that work Ellis’d been puttin’ in – like, he’d learned a whole bunch of fancy wines just so he could appreciate what it meant when Nick said someone’s wine cellar was overcompensating. He’d snuck off with Rochelle to hit up a book store and flip through a stack of books about ancient myths, purely so when Nick said there were better constellations to throw at the sky, Ellis could rattle one out and the two them’d waste time arguing over how to fit the damn thing into eight little balls of light.

And here was Louis, a fuckin’ IT guy – when Nick had called Ellis a nerd for knowin’ the difference between a meteor and an asteroid – being the best damn thing since sliced bread. But he wore a tie when they’d first met, so Ellis guessed that made Louis fancy enough to already have every cut of a diamond memorized.

Nick’d probably love this tax office. He’d probably spend the night here with his six-day-best-friend like it was a sleepover, and wouldn’t even complain how there were no good beds. And yeah, maybe four months wasn’t a decade, but it was longer –

“What?”

Louis repeated it.

“He likes you,” Louis said. “Really. He really likes you.” The man was focused in a way that suddenly had his voice sound calm. “He doesn’t like talking about it. I don’t know – I mean, I know why. Yes, that means in less than a week, he’s told me more than he’s told you. As far as I’m aware, you don’t know what his last name is. I do. And it’s fine. You know everything that’s worth knowing – he likes you, and I’m not here to get in the way of that.”

Huh.

Hmm.

Okay.

“Where – uh…” Ellis’ hat was fine, but he reached up and adjusted it again anyway. “Did he tell you that

– or…?”

“He told me,” Louis replied, not quite smiling but not smirking. Kinda something in-between. “When this started getting worse, I asked him what was going on. As he put it – after he went with, ‘The girls are fighting’ – it’s that you had 'a little, teeny crush’ on him.”

Huh.

Hmm.

Again.

… Only this time, it felt like a Tank had hit him with a sucker punch.

Ellis didn’t even realize the air had left his lungs, just that they were burning from bein’ empty for too long.

He wasn’t sure why that’d hurt so bad to hear.

What part of it in particular, he meant.

“Oh.” He said that almost like Louis had after Ellis’ ‘apology’. “I didn’t – fully…” He stopped. Tried a second time. “… I didn’t realize he knew.”

‘Cause Nick had never, ever acknowledged it.

Even that one time on the grass in front of that house. Ellis was alright thinking that Nick didn’t think it was too much of a big deal – just bros bein’ bros, if anyone had been so inclined to ask. Nothing worth an open talk, which Ellis assumed had meant he hadn’t been clear enough about it again. ‘It’ being his… ‘intentions,’ he supposed.

… Only he had.

He’d been clear enough for Nick to tell it to Louis.

So that was…

… Ellis’ answer, he guessed: a big nothing but gossip to laugh about, which meant ‘no’.

“You sure like your stories. I can see on your face what you’re telling yourself.” Louis’ expression had softened to a real smile. “Ellis, I just said he liked you.”

Not to be the one on this side of that argument, but Ellis cleared his throat and replied, “That’s not what you said he said.”

“I wasn’t finished saying what he said.” And there was the weird half-smile, half-smirk again. “What he said after that, and after I asked if the two of you were together –” Ellis’ heart gave a painful twist. “– was a minute of reasons why it wasn’t a good idea –” Shit. Shit. “– and one reason he hadn’t drawn a line to stop it.”

Ellis tipped his head forward.

Obviously he waited.

Obviously that was Louis’ cue to keep goin’, but he wasn’t.

“Are you gonna tell me,” Ellis asked, not really asking.

A cloud must’ve passed outside and covered the sun for a minute, because the light over Louis’ face had changed.

“That depends,” the man practically sang. “I am breaking Nick’s confidence.”

… There came, from the back of his mind, the silly thing Zoey had mentioned. ‘Two evil peas in a pod,’ he heard in her voice.

It was a smile, Ellis assured himself, sitting up straight in his chair at last. Nick would’ve been smirking, barely showing his teeth enough to let Ellis know that he was fucked – and that it was gonna be very funny watchin’ his life collapse ‘til he gave up the last of what he had.

To be fair, that was why Nick had originally said, ‘I’m not a dice guy.’ Ellis’d been warned, and they fuckin’ burned that game and all its stupid hotels and especially its dice. So here he was, feeling like Louis had just asked to buy his railroad, too.

“I’m sorry,” Ellis said, handin’ the damn thing over without a fight. “I mean it. I’ve been a shithead and I didn’t need to be putting you through that. You were bein’ nice and I was bein’ –”

“Jealous?”

The fact that they were friends should’ve been the clue, Ellis admitted to himself. It was just that Louis was so damn nice – even now, it was like bein’ robbed by Robin Hood. It felt like it was for a good cause.

“Yeah. Jealous.” He didn’t like how it tasted in his mouth. “I’m sorry, Louis.” Everyone at home would’ve been so disappointed in him. “I screwed this up.”

“It’s okay,” Louis said. “Francis has a book with all his favourite ways he’s seen me walk into a zombie, including the ones where he wished for it and it came true. He and Zoey are still the closest family I’ve ever had, and I love my family. My mom would knit me a scarf every year with her favourite line from my performance review – and not always the nice ones. The ones that made her laugh.”

Ellis must’ve looked confused, so Louis went on with, “Sometimes, when you’re on the outside looking in, love can seem like it’s mean. It can seem like your family being depressed you only pissed off a Witch twice that month, or like someone you’ve had a ‘little, teeny crush on’ finding a new friend that he spends a week being dangerously honest with.” Louis drummed his fingers on the table. “His reason for ‘keeping your hopes up’ was that he has ‘a little, teeny crush’ on you, too.”

“Oh.” Not like the ‘oh’ from before – an actual ‘oh’ as in ‘oh shit,’ what Louis was saying was sinkin’ in.

“So – what, you’re saying –”

“No, nope, I’m not saying anything,” Louis interrupted, waving his hands. “And don’t you say anything either. He isn’t ready to talk about this.”

“Okay,” Ellis said, immediately out of breath. “Okay. Okay.”

“But,” Louis tacked on, shrugging. “You know. Talking is talking. If you were to happen to – uh… run your thumb along the small of his back – I mean, that isn’t ‘talking’ by definition of that word. And I couldn’t even say I was giving you any ideas, since apparently you – um…”

That.

That was a goddamn smirk.

“Apparently I what?”

Louis chuckled in the kindest way, and then went in directly for the kill.

“Apparently,” Louis said, “you already ‘do’ that. A lot.”

Evil, Ellis agreed, but this was the best news he’d heard in his life. His heart had gone from twisting up to beating freely under his shirt, and a thousand different thoughts exploded in his head: when he did run his thumb along Nick’s back, how often had he done that, when in the hell had he ever even touched Nick’s back, was Nick counting all the times Ellis’ hand had been there by mistake, could it count if it was still a mistake, did it count as a mistake if the only thing wrong was that Ellis hadn’t meant to do it outside of his imagination –

And he heard the chuckling again.

If what he’d been thinking before had been on his face, then what he’d just thought was something anyone could’ve seen from Mars.

“Hold on a sec,” Ellis said, snapping himself back down to earth. “Why exactly are you tellin’ me this?”

Don’t be a lie. Please, please don’t be a lie.

“It’s not a trick,” Louis said. “I promise. Well…”

“What –”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Louis very poorly assured him. “It isn’t a trick on you. Nick likes you, and he’s a little bit in love with your thumb -” What. “- among other things you apparently do.” What. “I’m telling you as a peace offering. That’s all. And that I think Nick and I should figure out how to be friends without excluding you as much as we were. I’m sorry.”

“I… Yeah – thanks.” What in the hell else did Ellis do and why wasn’t Louis sharing it right goddamn now. “So – who’s the trick for?”

“Let me put it another way.” For the first time, Louis leaned forward in his seat. “Nick is a friend. He’s funny, he’s smart, and we get along. I can understand the appeal.” Closer. “But Zoey and Francis are my family.” Closer. “And the next time he says something like ‘Shocking’ before Zoey’s out of the room, I’ll be telling you which hand squeezing where on his waist – and I quote – ‘fucked up his brain for three hours.’”

… Mm.

Mm-hmm.

Okay.

Interesting.

“This is wrong, right?”

Ellis was startin’ to think it was wrong.

“There are some creative ethics involved,” Louis agreed. “Want to hear what Coach said?”

Lord, yes.

“Sure.”

The reply came instantly for once.

“Coach said if they aren’t braiding each other’s hair by the time everyone gets back, he’s telling you about ‘the shirt’ and letting Nick teach Francis how to say ‘bicuspid’.”

Shit. That was good enough for Ellis. Deal.

“Don’t take this as a bad thing,” he said as sincerely as he could muster, “but I’m wonderin’ if this makes Nick the ‘nice’ one out’f you two.”

Louis, shining as brightly as before, stood up and offered Ellis a hand.

“Trust me. We’re even,” the man promised. “I have an MBA.”

#l4d2 #left 4 dead 2 #nellis #l4d2 ellis #l4d louis #my stuff #good job tartra

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bird-in-a-cage · 5 years ago

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In today’s update of Whoops My Hand Slipped, and 100% inspired by smutty voice in my ear ( @cockasinthebird in case you couldn’t guess) and yesterday’s ravenous ghost talk, I present this. Enjoy!

E | 3157 | dubcon, spectrophilia, dom/sub vibes, choking, public sex, light nipple play

L Train

Steve fiddled with his tie, waiting on the platform for the red line to take him downtown. He was nervous, naturally. Not everyone got their foot in the door at Pierce and Pierce. But he had. And without his father's help. He had a job interview scheduled for ten. Nailing it was of the utmost importance. It meant he could stay in Chicago for one, his tiny uptown apartment with the windowsill lined with small succulent pots. It also would prove to his father that Steve wasn't a screw up. He could finally put his adolescent years and all the horrors they held to bed once and for all. Cut all ties with Hawkins and his family for good.

It was more than a job interview.

The platform gradually filled with commuters as the train pulled into the stop, already full of people. Steve had hoped getting a slightly earlier time would have meant it wouldn’t be so busy. He didn’t really want to have to ride an hour through the city crammed in like the fish in a trawler net he now was. But it would be okay. The journey didn’t matter, only the destination. He found a place to stand near a set of doors, facing outwards to watch the city go by, shifting his messenger bag to his front to keep it safe from pickpockets.

Steve knew there weren’t any, but his small town brain wouldn’t let those kinds of prejudices die.

The doors slipped close in front of Steve’s face before the train shuddered and shunted back into life, setting off at a pace through the city. Steve sighed silently to himself and ran through potential questions he might be asked, hands moving between playing with the strap of his bag, to the end of his tie, to brushing through the hair by his ears. All nervous habits and ticks. Never able to properly keep still. He closed his eyes for a moment, mentally picturing the interview. Placing himself as smooth and confident, with all the right answers. The total opposite to how he was in reality. Pierce and Pierce didn’t need to know who he really was.

Steve’s eyes flew open when he felt something touch his chest. There was nothing in front of him but the door, locked tight for safety. Maybe he had imagined the first, but the second time around there wasn’t a chance. It felt like a hand, open and splayed, right in the middle of his chest. The pressure of it slowly moving around to cup a pectoral muscle. It was strange to say the least. It didn’t feel like it was over his shirt though. It felt like it was directly against his skin. Steve glanced around. There was a man standing behind him but facing towards the rest of the carriage, nose deep in a folded up paperback. To Steve’s left was a woman in a pencil skirt, a black handbag pinned under her arm, again facing the carriage, focusing on nothing in particular with headphones on. Steve bit his lip before an embarrassing noise could be heard over the rattle of the engine as he felt fingers circling his sensitive nipple. His brain was suddenly spinning into overdrive, trying to work out what was happening and why. It wasn't another commuter and it certainly was far too direct to just be a haphazard breeze.

Mmm aren’t you a pretty one…

Steve felt his nipple being pinched as he probably resembled an owl, frantically looking around for whoever had spoken. But the voice that had floated around his head didn’t look like it came from anyone nearby. No one else was reacting if they had heard anything, or said anything even. It wasn’t a quiet voice either. Someone else would have definitely heard it. Steve hung his head and breathed hard through his nose. Now wasn’t the time for a breakdown, not on the biggest day of his life. Certainly the most important. Maybe that’s why it was happening. Stress and pressure. Steve closed his eyes again, just for a moment.

Nah ah pretty boy, let me see ‘em. You got real nice eyes.

Okay. No. This wasn’t happening. Not at all. Someone was playing a joke. A hideous prank. Steve kept his eyes shut on purpose now, ignoring the voice that was clearly just in his head. Trying to just breathe calmly and regain some form of composure. It lasted all of two seconds before his now hard nipple got another playful pinch. A noise bubbled in his throat that he had to pass off as a small cough.

Come on princess. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours…

Steve furrowed his brow at that. What did that mean? He opened his eyes, just a crack, and glanced up from his shoes, nearly screaming when he saw blue eyes and a wicked grin suddenly in front of him in the impossibly small space. Steve blinked in fright and it was gone. Like it had never even been there. Breathing wasn’t helping anymore. Not when he could feel something running through his hair, raking fingers combing it back all the way to the base of his neck. It made Steve shiver down to his toes. He loved having his hair messed with. Even a trip to the salon was a danger for being slightly turned on by the hair wash station.

God what was happening? Why couldn’t anyone else hear this voice? Why did Steve suddenly see crystal blue eyes? Why was he having a breakdown now?

The hand left his hair and travelled down his spine, skin prickling in its firm wake, causing Steve’s back to arch with it. Down down until one hand became two and cupped his ass almost posessively. Another noise almost made its way out of Steve’s mouth in surprise.

Jesus baby, look at all this now. Goddamn shame for it to be all covered up in a monkey suit...

Was… Was that a complement? Steve shook his head, trying to get the voice to fall out of his ears, maybe shake loose the part of his brain that was shutting down and allowing any of this to happen. Certainly trying to shake away the thought that this actually felt good. That the hands now kneading his ass were actually pretty nice. Wide and definitely firm. Exactly what Steve liked. For a small moment he let himself enjoy it, maybe subconsciously pushing back, just a little, for more. The voice in his ear chuckled almost knowingly before the whole of Steve’s back just felt warm. Unnaturally warm. Stranger than if he was stood halfway under a heating vent or had his back against a radiator.

Let’s see what else you got huh?

The hands worked their way around Steve’s front, around his waist and down. Behind the messenger bag that was now having to hide the beginnings of a semi, through clothes that apparently he may as well not have even been wearing. Steve definitely felt a hand wrap around his cock like it was just out in the open, circlingly tight and giving one sharp tug. A noise bubbled and popped out of Steve’s mouth before he could stop it this time. An embarrassingly high moan because okay that really did feel good. Steve felt the flush burn his cheeks, keeping his head down towards the floor in the vain hope that no one was paying attention enough to know it was him. All lost in their own pre-work worlds. The voice laughed almost cruel in Steve’s ear. Mocking in a way as the phantom hand started playing more, working Steve into complete hardness, tenting his best work pants and pressing into the leather of the bag. Steve’s grip on the strap of it was turning his knuckles white.

God you’ve got a nice cock princess. Real nice. You got the whole package huh?

The whimper that left Steve’s bitten lips was shameful. He didn’t want this, didn’t ask for this, didn’t even know what was happening but, he didn’t really want it to stop. It had been a good few months since anything had touched him, aside from himself. And whatever was working him over felt so good. Practiced even. Different from Steve touching himself, tighter and rougher, but still good. He dug his feet firmer into the solid flood to stop his hips rocking into the feeling that was taking over, sweat starting to bead on his temples.

Mmm don’t be shy now baby. Bet a sweet lil’ thing like you just loves being all full…

Steve swallowed thick. What could that possibly even mean in this context? In the middle of morning rush hour on the busiest train Steve had ever been on in his life, shunting from station to station through Chicago towards the biggest opportunity he’d ever gotten, being groped and touched all over by an apparent ghost that just haunted the train? Was this a dream or a nightmare? Steve couldn’t even tell anymore. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was still in bed, having a stress dream. His alarm clock would blare any minute, he’d open his eyes and this would all be over. He’d be staring over at the closed bedroom door and not down at his shiny black shoes. He wouldn’t be feeling a small damp spot growing in his briefs. He wouldn’t feel the phantom hand leave his cock and start rolling his balls around slowly like marbles in a wide palm, and he certainly wouldn’t feel another hand around his throat, forcing his head up off the floor and towards the ceiling. An advert for insurance right there in front of him.

Bet you love suckin’ dick, huh pretty boy? Fuck, just made to take whatever you can get I bet. What I wouldn’t give to have those lips wrapped around me. Bet you could swallow me all the way down huh? No problem at all. Bet you ain’t had a gag reflex for a long time now...

Steve’s knees were starting to shake. This was all too much. He still wasn’t sure if it was a ghost or the voice of his subconscious ringing loud and true in his head. Because the voice wasn’t lying. Not even a little. The hand left his throat. Steve didn’t want to admit he missed it, feeling something that felt like a thumb press under the hinge of his jaw, fingers achingly close around his windpipe. He screwed his eyes shut, tight, trying to keep breathing and not pant or moan like his body wanted too, especially when the hand returned to his cock, now stroking with careless abandon.

Steve was going to come. He was going to come right in the middle of a subway train in his best suit less than an hour away from the biggest job interview of his life and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

But it wasn’t the stroking that was going to take him over the edge. No. It was the sudden feeling of something blunt and hot pressing up hard against his asshole. His eyes flew open and all he saw was his own reflection in the train doors, a flushed mess sweating out of his own skin like he’d come down with a sudden fever. Steve had enough life experience to know exactly what was going to happen. He couldn’t move from it, there was nowhere to go with everyone packed in like a sardine can. In true honestly he didn’t exactly want to move from it.

You want this baby? I promise it’ll feel so, so good.

Steve could only stare at his own reflection, his own eyes dark with lust and want and god he’d gone completely insane. The hands left his cock and wrapped themselves around his hips. Instinctively Steve arched back, practically presenting. That was his answer. He did want it. He wanted it bad.

Fuckin’ knew it...

The groan Steve heard in his head was sinful. So deep and sexy it was like the soundtrack of a porno playing just for him. But what he felt was even better. So impossibly good. Going from nothing to stretched out and full in just a few short moments with no pain. It was heaven. Steve couldn’t stop the small whimper from his throat even if he wanted too. The man reading the paperback coughed. Annoyed. He’d definitely heard that one. The voice laughed, rocked up and punched the air out of Steve’s lungs, those devilish hands letting go of Steve’s hips and travelling up to his chest again. This time deciding to play with both of his nipples, flicking and twisting and circling around and around. Steve wouldn’t have lips left after all this with how hard he was having to bite them.

He no longer cared what was happening. If he was having a breakdown then so be it, this all felt far too good. Like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

Rock for me baby. Let me know you like it...

The voice was so sultry Steve had no option but to obey, rocking small on the balls of his feet. The voice moaned loud and deep and it just sent pure sparks along Steve’s spine. It definitely felt like something was inside him, something thick stretching him open and fucking him without a care. Steve felt it thrusting in and out, setting a brutal pace straight away that just wouldn’t be possible. God it was incredible. The small wet patch was getting bigger, threatening to leak through and stain, but Steve didn’t have the brain power to care anymore. He shifted his bag ever so slightly over the sensitive head of his cock, using three layers of different materials to his advantage, making his eyes roll back into his head. The voice just laughed and went harder. It was a miracle Steve was still on his feet. Was pretty sure whatever was fucking him was the only thing keeping him upright anymore.

Fuck, look at you. Such a little slut. So desperate for a dick you’ll take anythin’. Ain’t that right princess? Nod for me darlin’, you know I’m right. Say it outloud. I wanna hear it.

Steve bit his lip harder. He couldn’t. That was just too much. That would be admitting that this was good to the world. That wasn’t about to happen. A hand wrapped itself around his throat again, head being dragged back up to the insurance advert, locking eyes with a picture of a smiling woman holding a set of keys. Steve gasped and the grip was tighter this time. The other hand was back around his cock. God he could feel fingers everywhere. Splayed over the expanse of his throat and squeezing. Trailing through his weeping slit, wrapping tight on the strokes up and down then trailing again. The dick fucking him was getting harder somehow, brushing over his prostate with every other thrust. Steve was going to explode. This would be how he died. On the L Train red line. They’d find his corpse with a gaping asshole and drained of every ounce of cum Steve could possibly ever make. No evidence to be found. No motivation for a killer.

Come on pretty boy. Say it. Say you love my cock.

The hand tightened enough for Steve to choke and cough. His brain was swimming. A coil had formed hot in his gut, winding tighter and tighter. Jesus there was no way this was about to happen.

Say it!

“I love you cock…” Steve barely muttered out, gasps and a moan spilling out too. The man with the book coughed again but Steve didn’t care anymore. He was lost in a world of invisible hands and see through dicks and a voice, a deep deep voice that was grunting and panting hot next to his ear. Steve kept rocking back, a deep part of him wanting to just fall to his knees and let this ghost or whatever take him mercilessly.

Yeah you do. Yeah you do. Fuck!

Steve gasped at the feeling of wetness that wasn’t his own, deep inside him. That was extremely real. There was no way it couldn’t be. The ghost kept rocking into him, spilling and apparently milking himself in Steve’s body. He’d never felt so violated before. But it poured pure gasoline on the burning fire. With one more stroke of an invisible hand Steve came in his pants, whimpering like he was about to cry as the world whited out, falling forward to brace his hands on the door so he didn’t just crumble and fall apart. He panted through his nose, deep and hard and heavy. His briefs felt disgusting sticking against his spent cock. The voice laughed breathy, what was probably a nose brushing behind Steve’s ear with apparent affection.

Fuck, that was good. Thanks pretty boy.

And with that everything stopped. Steve was left alone, up against the train doors. The hands and voice totally gone. The only evidence of their presence was buried deep inside him. Steve ran off the train as soon as it pulled into the next station. If it was his he didn’t care. The first lungful of air was bliss. He gulped it down like water in a desert, trying to clear his head, staring at the steel vehicle. If his pants weren’t sticking to him so uncomfortably Steve would argue with himself if anything had even happened.

Blue eyes and that grin flashed through the glass of the doors. They winked and blew Steve a kiss before the train set off again, having to keep time through the city and its next stop.

Steve stayed on the platform for a while. A still beacon in an ocean of moving bodies, mentally trying to process what had happened but he just couldn’t. It was all far too much. Did he really just get fucked by a ghost? No, okay, one thing at a time. Pierce and Pierce. Job interview. He could ditch his briefs and try and block out this morning, he could still try. Piecing together his surroundings the office was only a few blocks away. He still had time to make it. Focus on one thing and one thing only. Don’t let them see the crazy. Prove everyone wrong.

Determined, Steve pressed on. His body felt truly fucked. His insides just felt wrong and out of place in a way that would be amazing if it wasn’t down to a spector’s wicked work. No. Don’t focus on that. Professional, not crazy. It was two blocks down that Steve came to a stop from his march, a sinking realisation setting in. Regardless of the outcome, he’d need to get the same train home. And that thought didn’t fill him with as much dread as it should have.

#harringrove #billy x steve #my writings #tw: dubcon #also on my ao3 #spectrophilia

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