The first time John Egbert wakes up in your arms, he's coming down from his first trip.
He's seventeen, still in school, and you are that bad boy influence that he doesn't need.
You shouldn't have given him heroin, for Christ's sake.
But he kisses and cuddles you and fucks you so hard your head slams into the headboard over and over and you shouldn't have given that to him.
The next time wasn't really the next time at all. He's eighteen, a dropout, and sleeps in your bed every night.
Sometimes you wonder if you ruined his life, especially when he takes bigger hits than you within six months. But the pink ribbons on his wrists are fading, and that's a good sign - right?
He wakes up and kisses your chest until the sunlight glaring through the broken window scares you awake, smiling his little goofy smile and pressing his lips to all the teensy holes in your arms. "We should quit."
This is how he wakes you up every day.
"Next week." "Tomorrow." "On Saturday."
This is how he's woken you up every day for the past five months and he never cares enough to really quit.
At this point, you don't think you can.
Sometimes he stares at the ceiling for hours, sometimes he comes home and just starts crying until you give him his hit, sometimes it hurts too goddamn much to move in the morning sometimes withdrawal hurts sometimes your hits only last for half an hour sometimes you're on a cloud all night.
Sometimes you think you're gonna die.
Sometimes you almost do.
loud shoutout to ao3 user elliptical who makes me feel famous by liking my story
also hi everyone else
AND ALL THE OTHER PEOPLE WHO LIKED MY STORY, THANK YOU
When you were seventeen, someone told you it was okay to cry, and fixed the slices in your wrists with pinpricks in your veins, and took your hand and never looked back.
You used to be a server at a pizza place downtown but then you met him.
Now your places of employment are alleyways, your customers dirty-tasting middle aged men, and you thought this was happiness.
Sometimes you come home sticky and violated and all you could do was fall to your knees and taste other guys on him but you did it so you could have what you wanted.
(and because you love him)
"I love you." Into the kitchen under the broken cabinet lighter water syringe and relief cuddles comfort safety.
Dave holds you (fucks you) kisses you (sucks you off) loves you (maybe).
You fall asleep with your teeth on his neck, wake up with his hand on your cock, and remember how you used to be afraid of needles.
His mouth tastes like other guys' cocks.
His cock tastes like other guys' mouths.
Jealousy he's mine he's mine he's mine HE'S MINE.
i'm the only one he fucks right
You told him that you ruined his life once.
"I hurt you."
He shakes his head. "Of course not!" Nibbles on your neck scratches your thigh does all those seductive little things.
"I'm trying to talk to you!" You growl and push him off.
Dope makes you angry.
"Don't you fucking remember how I almost killed you?! How you used to be in school?!"
He just looks scared out of his mind. "P-please don't yell."
And then you remember what happened to him.
When you were seven, someone told you that this was your fault. That you deserved it.
When you were twelve, you put that first slice across your arm.
When you were eighteen, you dropped out of school moved in with your boyfriend, did too much dope to fuck away your memories.
By the time you'd been with him a month, you forgot the feeling of any man but him. Two months and he was your whole life.
You're supposed to be devoted to him, right?
you'll do anything just GIVE ME WHAT I WANT
You love him too you love him you loved him for a year before that first hit he's perfect and sweet and feels so fucking good and
is that the dope talking or
is he really like th-
shut up john.
You used to joke that you were so good at your job that you could suck off a guy and shoot up at the same time but maybe that's true?
Sometimes he gets home looking like he's been fucked three ways to next week, new bruises, and you just wonder how safe that job is.
But it pays the bills, right? Gets you your dope?
You got 20 bucks a pop.
He got three-point-seven-five percent of the online subscription money. Thank god there were a lot of creeps who liked seeing a skinny blond guy on smack getting fucked.
(okay so it is really hot especially when you watched it with him but)
Your days are monotony. Make out in the morning, work at noon, shoot up at three, go weeks without enough food. Suck off your dealer for a dime bag that won't get John through the day.
Play guitar on the street, get barely enough for another bag.
Sell your guitar when John's not looking, buy him some really good shit.
Get home, find him sobbing on the floor.
"D-Dave help…" he holds out his hand and starts to wheeze.
Give him what he wants, watch him go from sobs to smiles and back again. Then he pounces on you, kisses your face all over, runs his nails from throat to groin just the way you like.
Wake up to crying. "John?" You call into the darkness and wrap arms around him and why is there blood on your hand.
"John what did you DO?!" You throw yourself out of bed, find a candle, put it in the bathroom (didn't pay the electricity, so what).
He cut himself again. It's bad. John just squeals when you wipe up the blood, wrap the arm, hold him close.
"I thought you weren't gonna do this anymore."
He starts crying harder. "D-Dave please forgive me."
Smile, nervously twist the stud in your ear. "I always forgive you."
So sorry for not updating..
He curls around you, kisses you over and over. Makes your head swim and wakes you up with tummy kisses.
It's nice feeling loved first thing in the morning. It's also nice shooting some wicked-pure smack and getting laid.
You are having a nice day. The longer you have a nice day, the longer until Dave can confront you, the longer till you have to explain how you cut for the sake of it.
You cut cause you have to, not because something set you off. You cut when Dave's gone too long or not enough. Cut when you use WAY TOO MUCH or WHOA NOT ENOUGH.
Dave lets you shoot up at 7 a.m., nice and early. Usually he makes you wait - maybe the freakout had something to do with it. You don't know.
"John, why'd you cut?"
You answer with a question. "Dave, why do you have tattoos you don't like and an infected piercing you won't visit the doctor for?" He frowns and he thinks you're trying to change the subject.
"You like how it hurts, don't you? When you got those stupid 13 tattoos you did it to feel the pain. Don't lie."
His jaw goes slack. "I - I - yes?"
told you you couldn't live without pain
Oops. Sorry, it's short.
Yeah, you did it for the pain, you did it cause you fucking could cause you felt like it cause you are such a son of a bitch that you couldn't live without pain
you really understand what's wrong with him.
"John, can I make you stop?" He shakes his head.
"Never ever ever ever."
"You need to stop… at least stop cutting!"
He gets angry like once a month, and you're gonna end up on the couch. He'll end up in the bathroom with slits on his wrists. And your relationship will just get worse but you can't let him go off into the world by himself when he cuts himself this bad when he's addicted you are kind of trapped with someone who really should not be with you because you are awful but
you have to save him.
You spend your day hiding from him so he's not mad. You wish you didn't ruin everything with how stupid you are or how weird you are or any of that. You just want to be okay.
More than that, you want to stop cutting yourself so you can get really lost. So you can high-fuck without ripping yourself open. Maybe your priorities are off-center but all you fucking want is for the sadness to be over and the 'everything is okay' to start.
You shoot up more, more, more, until you wind up crying because you can't ever get enough why can't you get enough you need more more more MORE MORE MORE. There's something really, really fucking wrong with you.
You spend your night in Dave's arms, counting the last money you have and deciding that you should get a new tattoo. The more tattoos you have, the better you pass as someone who's not a druggie. Why? No one knows.
You score a teensy gear on your wrist, over the scars. Dave thinks it's the sweetest thing ever, and you just look at it fondly and sadly. How're you supposed to get your hit for the day when you spent 50 on a fucking tiny-ass gear? You need a goddamn better job than being a prostitute.
Maybe you should upgrade to being a camera model or something. Just not this.
You need more.
So sorry guys, I just have been in kind of a crazy emotional state. But I am writing again! Go Cameron!
You can only watch him disintegrate, falling into your arms after bigger and bigger hits. There's no such thing as sober sex anymore, he's never clean for more than a few hours. And when you fuck, it's not the same.
He spends every night getting fucked and then he crawls back into bed with you, pressing his body against yours.
"Fuck me, Dave." And the way he's grinding against you doesn't help.
"Baby, it's late."
"Mmm, you're already hard." He presses his hand against that godforsaken bulge in your pants and you let a soft moan slip out.
"O-oh fuck, John, yeah." He just grins. As always, he got his way.
"Just let me touch you." You pant out a "fuck yes" and he presses his lips to yours, hard and fast, the same as the hand against your cock.
"H-hey baby..." You break the kiss after a moment. "Can I get a blowjob from my favorite..." You kiss his lips. "Sexiest," Kiss. "Cutest," Kiss. "Best boyfriend ever?"
John giggles and it's nice to see him laugh, even if it's drug-induced.
At least that way you can remember what it was like before you ruined his life.
But there's no time to be sentimental, especially when he slides between your legs
Within fifteen seconds, he's got your pants off and your heart beating in your ears.
"You're the biggest cock I've seen all night." he murmurs, licking a slow, soft stripe up and making you gasp.
Okay so you haven't come in 3 days. "I b-better be the biggest cock you see all year."
He laughs, cause it's three hours past midnight, January 5th. "Biggest so far." Another quiet giggle and he kisses the head of your cock, which was always stupidly oversensitive, and you're already dripping pre.
"J-John! Quit teasing."
"M a professional slut. Teasing's my job." You almost laugh at that, so badly scripted it belongs to a girl in a double-oh-seven movie from 1989. He stops teasing anyways, jumping in to slipping his tongue along your slit, giving you goosebumps every fucking time.
"J-john you f-fucker..." You pet his hair and almost scream when the tip of your cock hits the back of his throat whoa where the hell is his gag reflex whoa.
He doesn't reply, owing to the dick in his mouth, and just cups your balls the way you love.
"O-oh sh-shit I'm close." You hate your hormones, Jesus Christ you're 18 you should last longer than this, but you still buck up your hips and cum like a rocket down his throat.
Within seconds, he's rubbing against you again, letting out a catlike purr. "Dave, fuck me..."
You frown a little. "Babe... you already got fucked tonight." By every gay guy in Brooklyn, you add in your head. By every guy with thirty bucks or a bag of H.
"Mmm, but they're not the same, Dave, they don't know how to make me feel good."
You give up entirely. Already know you're going to give in to him, so what's the point in trying? "Fine, kitten."
He's halfway giddy. "Thanks, Davey!" He kisses you, hard, and you can feel the bones underneath his skin as your hands travel down his too-bumpy spine and toy with the waistband of his boxers.
"You need to eat," you grumble, getting off said boxers and slipping a saliva-wet finger inside him.
He's still loose from the probably three, four guys other than you who've had the privilege of fucking that tight ass tonight. But you still do the fingering routine, it makes you feel normal.
John gasps instead of answering, and you don't move until you ask again. "Will you please fucking eat?"
He pants out a "f-fine" and you know you shouldn't believe him, he only agreed cause you've got a finger rubbing against his prostate, but you do anyway.
This relationship's going to be the death of you.
wow i sure am bad at updating things
You've got a routine down by now.
Wake up, get dressed, have a few drinks, sometimes eat breakfast, take a piss, have a hit or two, take a nap, take a shower, eat, go to work, eat, have sex, go to bed. Over and over and over and over. Sometimes Dave figured out where you were working, made you come home early, held you while you cried. You tried not to cry anymore, though.
At least not in front of a john.
The time you did, the time you burst into tears and sobbed and broke down completely, he looked disgusted, like he wasn't fucking a slut. He was fucking a real person.
Nobody wants to remember that whores are real people, do they.
Sometimes Dave tells you to quit.
"Hey babe?" Three in the morning, you just got home.
"Will you stop doin H?"
You just giggle and walk down the hallway. Pretend not to hear him so you don't get in an argument.
You don't ever, ever want to stop.
You're so scared of what he's doing to himself. Yeah, you're practically in the same boat, you're addicted too, but at least you're not cutting, at least you have a job (even if it's porn), at least you don't do it three, four times a day. Just once. Maybe twice.
That's okay right?
But John? John's gone too far.
One night, you come home, and he's simply not there. You call for him, you wander the house.
You find him in the bathroom, passed out with a needle in his arm.
You can't stop screaming.