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Filth: Kinktober 2019

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Summer sun, grassy fields, sweaty bodies, noxious smells: it's what music festivals are made of.

Sweaty hands, open mouths, bruising lips, bodily fluids: it's what moments like this are made of

Craig had tongued the first pill into Corey's mouth about forty minutes ago. Sid did the same ten minutes later. They'd swapped pills and spit between hungry mouths until they couldn't help making grabby hands at each other, and Corey didn't even vaguely put up a fight when Craig caught him by the t-shirt and dragged him into the handicap portajohn. There was no time to consider his surroundings or what the actual fuck he was doing, because the door wasn't even closed behind him before Craig was on him, seizing his hair and kissing him like his life depended on it. He'd barely got his brain wrapped around that before another set of hands dropped onto his hips. Corey started, biting down into Craig's lip, both yelping.

Sid. Corey recognised the panting sounds in his ear. The fucking deviant had taken more pills than him and Craig, was vibrating and drooling with need. Literally drooling, Corey felt it run down the back of his neck into the collar of his t-shirt. He didn't even acknowledge it; a bit of spit was far from the most disgusting thing about the situation.

Now the three of them are lost in the sauce and trying to move in sync, failing miserably but not giving a single fuck. They're sun-baked and dehydrated, starry-eyed and bollock-naked, and Corey's starting to forget what it ever felt like to not be impossibly full of dick. Craig's moving in slow methodical thrusts, the complete opposite of the way Sid's assaulting his throat. Corey's had to pull away to throw up more than once. Sid just giggles his raspy giggles and pulls him right back, one time dropping down to give Corey a disgusting, sloppy kiss. Euphoria swells in Corey's brain as drool spills from between their lips and Sid shoves back in, resuming his hurried, frantic thrusts. Craig keeps up his sedate pace, punctuated thrusts that pushes Corey into Sid’s dick.

"Sid, slow the fuck down man," Craig nips, which distracts Sid long enough for Corey to get a decent breath, because he's been subsisting on what his nose can inhale, and the air in the cabin is ninety percent stink. "You're fucking up my rhythm,"

Corey hears Sid call Craig a boring bastard, then his mouth is full again. His throat relaxes, takes Sid easily and eagerly, glad the attention is back on him. He’s not done yet. Warm, sweaty hands rub along his back and arms and ass, raking the sweat from his muscles and it's making him feel like he's melting, turning into putty as they stroke and pound at his pliant body. Dust motes flicker in the sunlight that peeks through the open plastic window slit, the occasional low voice filtering through. Corey tries to concentrate but let's be honest, he's just along for the ride at this point. The three of them are tripping balls, just as high on ecstasy the emotion as ecstasy the pharmaceutical. The people outside don’t exist, wont exist for the rest of the night. The rest of their lives. Their bitten-off moans and the obscene smack of skin on skin is perfectly audible to everyone walking past, and granted that’s not that many people but it’s enough that were they in any fit state to realise they would probably be embarrassed and ashamed. As if. Nothing exists outside the portajohn. Nothing.

Corey would say he’s never had a better fuck in his life. It’s just that fucking good. If only the two idiots would stop fucking arguing, that is. He’s just trying to get spitroasted for fucksake, why do they have to make it so difficult? He doesn’t take his mouth off Sid. He doesn’t push Craig out his hole. He does grab at them both until they stop, though. Only then does he let Sid fall from his lips. Christ, does he have to do everything himself? He shouldn’t be having to fucking organise shit while he’s high as fuck, he’s just supposed to be a body in the middle.

“Take. Turns. Guys,” he gasps, throat raw. Woozy and loose he feels himself start to tip, and both sets of hands tighten to keep him upright. “Just fuckin' take turns,” With that he covers Sid’s fists with his own, tightens them in his hair, starts fucking his mouth back and forth again. Sid takes the hint, starts jackhammering into Corey again, and it knocks him back against Craig's dick with brutal force. Craig gasps, digs into Corey’s hips with his nails and presses back, letting Corey bounce off him. A minute later, Sid is slowly and Craig is taking over, rough, pointed thrusts that rock him down onto Sid’s cock, pushing it even further down his throat, slowly but no more gently than Sid had been.

That’s it. That’s what he wants. They fall into a rhythm and Corey can finally feel it; he’s bathed in light, golden and warm, not the true literal sunlight that makes their sweaty bodies glow but a radiant aura of bliss. Back and forth, back and forth he’s jostled, caught between two bodies but feeling like part of just one, a single unit, bound together by this heady ordeal. His knees shake, and he’s not even moaning anymore, just huffing air around Sid as he swallows, letting the split flow free til it pools on the floor by his hands, mixing with the miasma of bodily fluids that no doubt coat the floor of the cabin, making their hands, their knees stick to the surface. Again they don’t give a flying fuck, they’re just flying.

Like a struck match a fire starts to burn in Corey’s stomach, and it’s caught, lighting his belly and warming him from the inside out. He’s going to burn up, he’s going to combust and die here on his hands and knees, but he doesn’t care because it tastes like the sun and he needs that explosion, the release of the pressure. The guys are losing their timing again but now they’re all too far gone to care. Corey can’t see it but the golden light is dissipating, turning purple and blue and silvery. On the inside he’s still bright yellow, head full of stars that pool in his stomach. It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s -

Corey’s coming, dick heavy between his legs pumping hot and fast onto the filthy floor. Every muscle tenses as the light engulfs him, and Craig cries out as his hole clamps down on him, echoing Sid who moans at the feeling of Corey’s teeth biting down on him hard. It’s simultaneous, and Corey’s suddenly even more full at both ends, orifices invaded and body full and used. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. He swallows, he clenches, he works them both through it, and all of a sudden it’s all too much and down they go in a sweaty heap of limbs. They still grope for one another, needing that anchor to keep them on earth. Corey’s still full of that light, a soft warm flickering flame now that makes him hum in contentment. They don’t notice the smells, the stickiness of the floor, the fact that it’s no longer daylight but heavy twilight, or the gentle tap on the door that precedes a voice saying “Ten minutes to stage, guys.”

Chapter Text

Hardcore punk shows are pretty well known for being loud. Even when there’s no band on stage, the PA is usually still bellowing out songs about the disaffected youth between sets to entertain the people propping up the bar and the barrier. 


Jim is one of the former. He’s here to see his friend’s band play (they have, and he regrets bothering), trying to decide if cares enough about the main act to stick around or if he’s gonna bail after this drink. If he ever gets fucking served that is; the douche in the clearly brand new off the high street Ramones t-shirt only seems to care about serving the clearly underage skinny girls with Doc Martens and too much eyeliner. He doesn’t even spare Jim a glance. The chances of Jim lasting the night in this rathole club are getting slimmer by the minute.

Somehow, even with Black Flag blaring in the background, Jim still manages to hear the guy before he sees him, voice loud and shouting something about being done with the easy living. Song lyrics. Jim recognises the song; one of his favourites and not that well known in this shithole city, and he’s shocked and pleased to hear someone else quoting it. The voice gets louder, closer, until it’s right by his ear, and he glances down from where he’d been trying to get the bartender’s attention to see the source of the racket. 

Hopefully the sound Jim makes when he nearly swallows his tongue is drowned out by the music from the speaker overhead, because it truly is pitiful. He sees wide shoulders clothed in a ratty black t-shirt that’s full of holes, an equally threadbear flannel topping it off, and then Jim’s fucking kryptonite; a tiny tartan skirt, fishnet tights and big black boots. Usually he prefers them on girls, but there’s something about the idiosyncratic combination of thick muscular male on top with soft, slender feminine below that’s got Jim instantly sweating like a pig on speed. He pushes his glasses up his sweaty nose and tries not to panic when the guy turns from his friends and catches Jim’s eye, smiling.


“Hey man, good night?” Shit, he’s so loud Jim doesn’t even have to stoop to hear him. His fingers twitch with the urge to rub them together, nervous, but he manages to stamp it down. 

“Uh yeah, yeah not bad. You?” mercifully his voice is steady. The crowd surrounding the bar shove against them, pushing them closer together, and Jim feels the guy’s leg brush his. Then their arms make contact and Jim’s mouth goes dry.

He shrugs. “Meh, not bad. Place is full of posers so, like, it’s whatever,” and that makes Jim laugh. There’s nothing worse than music scene elitists, and Jim knows this cos he’s just as bad. 

“Yeah totally, but I told my buddy I’d be here so, gotta deal with it y’know?” 


That gets him an eye roll and nod of solidarity. He’s just about to turn back to the bar, avoid embarrassing himself further, when the guy puts his hand on Jim’s shoulder and stands on tip-toe, pulling himself up til he’s level with Jim’s ear. The heat from his hand makes Jim’s brain short for a second, and he doesn’t realise the guy’s yelling something in his ear. He turns his head, and their faces are so close together that their lips nearly brush when he shouts “What?”, voice still somehow managing to sound small.

The guy grins, unfazed. “I said, the name’s Corey. What’s yours?” he yells, breath hot against Jim’s ear. He shudders, waits until Corey turns his ear to him and prays he wont stammer and fuck up his own goddamned name. He’s so fucking sweaty he feels like his brain is leaking out his ears. Corey drops back down but doesn’t stop staring up at Jim, and he feels himself move on autopilot, like they’re being drawn together. Their lips are so close, so close to touching -

There’s a beat of silence then a roar of voices, signalling the headlining act taking to the stage. Both their heads whip round to look, spell broken. Jim has no idea who they are, he doesn’t fucking care either. He never got his drink and Corey is really fucking hot and Jim’s going to die of embarassment if he has to just stand here and stare for another minute. He needs to do something while he works his shit out. Instead of attempting to speak, he just gestures to the crowd. Corey seems to take the hint and follows him into the throng.


That’s better. Corey barely clears Jim’s shoulder so he slinks around to stand in front of him, and the people around them are too busy going buck wild to pay them any attention. Now that he’s not being stared at, Jim can think straight. Well, as straight as he ever thinks. Right now his bisexual lizard brain is front and centre and making all his decisions for him. The crowd is so tightly packed that there’s barely room to breathe, and Corey is squashed between Jim and the person in front. That means that no one can see him press his hips back into Jim’s, or notice Jim’s hands come up to fist in that skirt and pull him back against him even harder.


Jim doesn’t waste any time. He drops his grip on the fabric and slides his hands under it instead, tracing the lines where Corey’s thighs meet his hips with his fingertips and relishing the way it makes him shake. Pressing his thumbs against his ass he rocks his hips forward as he pulls back. No one hears the moan Corey lets out over the volume of the band. No one can tell he’s crying out because Jim’s dick is pressing against him and not because he’s cheering for the band along with everyone else. People are pressed so firmly to their sides no can see Jim’s groping hands squeeze pert cheeks firmly before sliding two fingers between them and pulling.

Corey jerks a little as the fabric pulls and parts, but he doesn’t do anything to stop Jim. Doesn’t do anything when Jim moves his hand, quickly sucks two fingers and pulls what feels like tiny panties to the side with the other hand. Shit, that’s commitment to the bit. Jim can’t think about that for too long because his erection already feels like a weapon of mass destruction and if it gets any worse he’s going to have to fuck Corey right here and now. Those fingers rub down the cleft of Corey’s ass to circle his hole. Jim’s not gonna finger Corey, right here on the fringes of a mosh pit. He wants to but he’s not going to. Not quite anyway.

Like lightning Corey’s left hand is gripping Jim’s where it sits on his hip, digging his fingers in so hard Jim can feel his nails dig into the skin. The other hand snakes round, grabbing at anywhere on Jim he can reach. The space is too tight for him to get any real leverage though, so Jim just keeps teasing him, dipping his fingertips in and out, in and out, alternating between that and stroking back and forth, pressing a little on that sweet spot behind his balls. Okay, fuck , he said he wasn’t gonna properly finger him right here because he just wants to tease him, but when Jim leans forward to lick and bite at the sweat trickling down Corey’s neck, he can’t resist sinking one finger completely in, just so he can feel the way Corey’s throat constricts under his lips as he gasps at the intrusion.

Corey cranes his head around to finally catch Jim’s lips, and he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth to bite it. Payback , Jim thinks. He tastes of cigarettes and cheap beer, hungry, and he whines into Jim’s mouth, needy-sounding and thin. It’s dark in the club, lit only by the stage lights dyeing them all red, green, bright white, and when he pulls back they illuminate the blue of Corey’s eyes. Jim can see the fire in the thin ring of colour left around his pupil. They both need more.

Shifting his hands and hooking his fingers into the waistband of that fucking skirt that Jim’s going to be fantasising about for a year, he turns away and drags Corey through the crowd. Towards the toilets. Corey seems to realise halfway there and grips Jim’s wrist. Tight. Rolls his hand around it and kneads the bones and muscles there and that pressure makes Jim nearly sob out loud.


Once they get inside the small, cramped area, it’s just a flurry of activity: pick a cubicle, the furthest from the door. Rip Jim’s fly open and shove him onto the toilet, Corey dropping to his knees on the floor, not a second thought given about dirt and bacteria, to suck Jim down so hard and fast Jim has to clap his hand over his mouth before he shouts loud enough the band would think he was auditioning. Lord help him, it’s like Corey’s trying to suck his fucking soul out, tongue working magic from root to tip, and it takes Jim biting down on his fingers til he’s amazed he doesn’t taste blood to avoid coming right there and then. With all his willpower he reaches down and grabs Corey’s hair, pulling him off his dick. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t instruct, just grabs him by the hips and yanks him onto his lap to straddle him. Their dicks grind together, the texture of the fabric chafing him but in a good way, that makes him shudder and shiver.


A sobering thought hits Jim: he doesn’t have a condom. He’d taken the last one out of his wallet when he realised it was expired, because Jim can’t remember the last time he randomly needed a condom out of his wallet. He can only vaguely remember the last time he got laid for god’s sake. Pulling back, he thunks his head off the wall behind him, explaining the situation when Corey realises something’s wrong.

“Do you have a condom or anything?” His heart sinks further when Corey shakes his head, gesturing to his clothes. Yeah, not many pockets in a miniskirt. Jim just chants fuck fuck FUCK. Logically he knows it’s ok, they can do something else, if Corey even still wants to. Shit, just his fucking luck.

Corey’s voice is tight with need when he finally speaks, and it takes him a couple of goes to get the words out. “You don’t need to believe me, but I’m clean,” he leans forward, presses his forehead to Jim’s, keens when Jim pulls on his hips and ruts up against his still-clothed cock. “I just got tested, I’ll text you my fucking results if I have to, dude.” His hand drops to Jim’s cock, gives him a few rough squeezes. 

“Yeah, yeah, me too,” Jim hisses between his teeth. “Got tested months ago, haven’t fucked anyone since,” Corey doesn’t say anything after that, just spits hard in his hand and slams his mouth to Jim’s, reaching behind himself to start opening up. Jim does the same, pulls away for a second to lick two fingers, feeling Corey’s knuckles against his as they work together. Corey’s insides are so fucking hot and soft, Jim’s mouth is so dry when he spits as much as he can into his hand to lube them both up. It’s far from ideal but it would take Hannibal and his fucking elephants to stop Jim getting his dick inside Corey right now


Corey wraps his arms around Jim, holding on tight as he starts to sink down, inch by brutal inch. Jim isn’t being boastful when he says he knows his dick’s big; it’s just part and parcel of being a six foot six inch guy, everything about him is huge. Corey quivers, bites his lip and Jim can see the sweat pouring from his hairline. He doesn’t stop though, keeps bouncing slightly and rolling his hips while Jim just stares at him like he’s the goddamn sun. Then he’s done, finished, seated completely in Jim’s lap. They kiss for a minute, letting Corey get accustomed, but then he’s rocking hard and fast, trying to bounce on Jim’s dick but he can’t get decent purchase on the greasy floor because of Jim’s legs. Jim can taste his frustration.

Jim pushes a hand against his chest, leaning him back against the cubicle door, and hauls his hips closer to him, tilting them up. Corey squeals, the noise turning into a hoarse moan as Jim starts lifting his hips up to slam into him. There’s nowhere for his dick to go apart from right against his prostate, and Corey makes a noise like Jim’s fucking stabbing him. Jim grabs the skirt again, pushing it up to expose Corey’s dick, covered only by a thin layer of lace and the fishnets. Not even bothering to pull the tights down, Jim just tucks his fingers into the holes and rips, yanking the panties to the side with strong hands to free Corey’s erection. It’s leaking everywhere, making the slide slick and effortless. He doesn’t even need to move his hand, hips smacking into Corey’s ass hard enough to thrust him up into his grip, but he does it anyway. Corey’s got his arms bracing him too now, one against the wall and another with a deathgrip on the doorknob, head thrown back and howling frantic little uh, uh noises in time with Jim’s movements. Planting one boot on the wall behind Jim, Corey starts to hump into Jim’s hand a little, so so fucking full but still needing more. Jim calls him a little slut. Corey just moans louder.

The sight of Corey falling apart in Jim’s hand, the unabashed cries and groans coming from them both, and that tight heat all combine and Jim’s orgasm rips through him. Hands tightening around Corey with a choked-out grunt, he fills him up. It feels like it’s never gonna end, wave after wave slamming into him, and he can feel come leaking out before he’s ever finished. He doesn’t hear Corey coming, is away in his own world until the heat covers his hand. Stroking him through it, Jim pulls Corey back up to him, kisses him as he comes down from his own high. Corey grabs Jim’s hand, pulls it up and starts licking his come off it. Jim joins in. It’s not like he could possibly feel any filthier, might as well make the most of it.

Eventually, Corey complains his legs are going numb from the way he’s sitting, and Jim helps guide him back onto shaking legs. His dick twitches as he’s watching Corey run two fingers up the inside of his thigh to catch some of the come before licking it off them. He does it again, reaches them out towards Jim, who leans forward with his mouth open and just lets Corey wipe his fingers on his tongue. Jim wants more. Corey obliges. 


It takes them what feels like forever to get the bartender's attention, and when they do he seems pissed off that they dragged him away from his harem of teenagers just to ask for a pen. Corey writes his name and number on Jim’s hand, pressing a kiss to the palm before he leaves. Jim feels hot all over because he knows Corey’s still got Jim’s come running down his legs. 

He’s got his phone out and dialed before Corey’s even out of sight.


Chapter Text

Jim’s staring down at him. That’s nothing new; he’s practically a foot taller than Corey, he looks down at everyone.

This is different. He’s sprawled out on the couch, legs crossed and arms stretched across the back, moving only to take the occasional drag on his cigarette. Now he’s on everyone else’s level. It’s Corey that’s on a different level. Naked as the day he was born and on his knees, sat back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back with his fingers twisting together nervously. It’s a position he takes easily, he’s had plenty of practice.

God he's fidgety though. His leg itches and he wants to fiddle with his hair by his ear, wipe his nose, a hundred tiny micro movements that Jim's gonna see, and if Jim sees him move he wont be happy and Corey wont get what he needs. And he really needs it. He's been pent up as fuck all day, full of nervous energy and trouble and fuck he needs Jim and his corrective hand. He’s spent the past hour, maybe two in this position, alternating between apologising for being bad and begging Jim to let Corey touch him. It’s the ultimate punishment; Jim knows how badly Corey wants to touch him, and be touched. To be given his reward for taking correction so well. He’d stopped whispering please a few minutes ago, starting to fear the worst.

Lifting the crossed leg, Jim stretches it out in front of him, rests his boot heel on the floor. Something in Corey sighs. He knows what Jim wants and don’t get him wrong, he wants it too,’s not what he wanted.

He’ll take it though, because he’s desperate and needy and weak for anything that Jim will give him, any sort of scrap of attention. Even if what he’s about to do is more about Jim than himself.

Ah, who the fuck does he think he’s kidding? Anything that gets Jim hard gets Corey hard. He practically fucking lives to service Jim’s every fucked up fantasy and fetish, and one of those fetishes just happens to be watching Corey grind his dick all over his boots and leg. Corey licks his lips and nods.

Jim reaches down, tugs up the leg of his jeans to expose more of the worn black leather, and watches as Corey knees towards him and over his shin, cock lining up perfectly with the tightly tied laces. His hands are still behind his back, Jim hasn’t given him permission to move them or touch him or anything like that. It makes his movements clumsy, but he manages to get into a rhythm. He leans forward, traps his dick between the laces and his stomach. Fuck, it’s good. A little too good. His cock’s leaking, he can feel it stringing between the leather and his dick and his stomach when he leans up. It’s disgusting. He loves it.

Jim wont love it if Corey comes all over his boots without permission though.

“Can - can I come?” he asks, unsure. It’s never a guarantee with Jim, especially after repeated bad behaviour. He looks up at him, eyes meeting. Jim’s flushed, clearly turned on. Easy to influence. Maybe if he just widens those baby blues a little, maybe if he makes his voice sound just a bit more pleading, he can manipulate his way into this. Maybe.

Jim rubs his chin, twists his beard a few times. Thinking. Corey shakes harder. God please, just say something baby, anything, just put me out of my fucking misery one way or another I know I’ve been an asshole and I know I don’t deserve it so just please please please -

"Yeah, yeah you can come," Jim finally relents. "Get up here."

Oh thank fuck. Corey lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Plants a knee next to Jim's leg. When he makes to swing the other over his lap though, Jim stops him with a firm hand on his chest.


"But -" Corey starts, but the look Jim gives him snaps his teeth shut automatically. Jim doesn't say anything, just stares at him, and Corey's starting to fucking vibrate from the tension of balancing on one knee and the building knot of need in his gut. It's agony, counting the passing seconds, until he can't take it anymore. Eyes downcast, lip trembling in time with his voice, all he can do is whimper, "Please…"

Jim just pats his denim-clad thigh. Corey looks down at it, not fully understanding. Jim looks down and nods his head. Either Corey’s being stupid or he’s had a stroke due to lack of bloodflow to his brain thanks to his achingly hard dick, because he doesn’t know what Jim means.

Huffing air out his nose, Jim pats his leg again. “The only way you’re getting off is on my thigh.”

Corey just blinks, dizzy with desire and dumb with frustration. He licks his lips a few times and reaches out to grip Jim’s shoulders, bracing himself. Jim must be in a generous mood because doesn’t chide him for touching without permission, just mimics the motion by sliding his hands around Corey’s hips, steadying him as he lowers that leg between Jim’s and makes himself comfortable on his thigh. The denim instantly chafes the soft skin of his inner leg, but he doesn’t care; the pressure of his balls pressing up against him blanks everything else out. Jim digs his fingers in a little, urging him to move. Impatient to watch Corey get himself off in such a crude manner.

Leaning forward Corey gives his hips a small experimental roll. It’s good. Very good, so he repeats it. Again after that, a little harder. He leans further, nearly chest to chest, and it’s still good, but the angle’s not quite right. He doesn’t stop though. Keeps working, keeps grinding, keeps trying to reap that pleasure like he was told. Jim echos Corey’s little grunts, shifting his hips a little to rub against Corey’s knee. He hadn’t even noticed but it’s nearly pushed right up against Jim’s crotch. He rocks from side to side a little under the guise of getting into a better position, and when his knee shifts up he doesn’t miss the low hissed intake of air from Jim. But he knows better than to push it; he’s lucky to have gotten as far as he has what with how much of a little shit he’s been all day, and if Jim thinks Corey’s trying anything he’ll dump him off his lap and into a cold shower faster than you can say “Shit, that was fast.”

Jesus fuck this is frustrating. He keeps moving, keeps grinding, keeps trying but it’s not enough. His dick just isn’t getting enough friction, and he daren’t even attempt to touch himself. Tears start to bubble in his eyes, sobs catching in his throat over the top of the little stuttered moans he’s making. He’s so fucking stupid, why is he even doing this? He could have gone home, stuck on some POV buttslut creampie porn and jacked himself off before probably falling asleep in his come-soaked sheets. He doesn’t have to be here, and he briefly considers getting up and telling Jim to shove his perverted power trip.

That’s not gonna happen though. Corey knows it, and he knows Jim knows it. Instead he’s going to dry hump Jim’s leg until one of them gets bored. Then they’ll probably give each other lazy handjobs in front of the TV, have a beer and go to bed. Maybe get one round of sleepy sex in. That’s not a bad thing, Corey doesn’t have a massive issue with that kind of evening or anything; he just wants to see this current scenario through to the end. They’ve started so they’ll finish. Gritting his teeth he lets the whine he’s been suppressing finally sneak out.

Jim starts, clearly away in his own filthy world for a moment there. He must be able to hear the note of desperation in Corey’s voice because suddenly he’s shifting his hands up, holding Corey’s waist and guiding him to a halt. Some of the coldness has left his face when he pushes sweaty russet hair back and asks Corey, “What’s wrong, baby?”

The gentleness in his voice nearly makes Corey cry outright. It feels like a herculean effort to admit, “It - it’s not enough. I can’t get it right, fuck, it hurts,” he pauses, sniffs while a tear rolls down his cheek. “Please, Jim, I - I need. I need…” He trails off, because he doesn’t know what the fuck he needs,

A gentle thumb rubs at Corey’s ribcage for a second before the warmth of it is gone. He misses it for a split second, gasping out loud as it comes back, this time on his dick as Jim presses down on it, huge hand covering the tip and some of the shaft. Presses it into his thigh. Oh fuck, yes that’s what Corey needs. The scrape of denim on the sensitive head of his dick is like sandpaper but he gives not a single fuck. The heat of Jim’s hand, the weight of it holding him down and giving him something to work against, it’s perfect and it’s all he needs and all he can think about. Precome leaks from his tip as he grinds back and forth which gives him some lubrication, and if Jim’s noticed it dripping onto his jeans he hasn’t said anything. He seems too preoccupied by staring at Corey’s face and chest, flushed pink, to care. His other hand has a death grip on Corey’s other hip, and he starts pulling it, forcing Corey to rut faster and faster.

Oh god, it hurts. It’s dry and rough and it hurts and Jim’s whispering all these awful things about how slutty Corey looks, how disgusting he is humping Jim’s leg like a horny mongrel. Corey just whines, nods, agrees with him, because it’s true. He’s a filthy creature that gets off on being humiliated and depraved and he needs punished like that, because it’s all he deserves. No, he deserves worse. Like not getting to come. Maybe Jim wont let him come after all. Maybe he’ll make Corey stop at the last minute and force him to watch while he gets himself off. That’s a favourite of Jim’s. Something about the little plaintive begging cries Corey makes really gets him drooling, usually onto Corey’s chest while he straddles it, pulling until he comes all over him and letting Corey fall asleep hard and aching. No, no he wouldn’t. He told Corey he could come. He knows how much he needs this.

He stares at Jim’s face now, head tipped back and wet mouth open. Corey wants to fucking bite his lips, gnaw them til they bleed. Jim’s voice is fucked and raw when he says, “‘S that good baby?”

Corey whines, “Yeah, yeah,” panting and heaving for oxygen.

“You gonna come for me?” Jim’s voice is like gravel. Corey can’t speak, just grit his teeth and nod his head frantically. The constant friction is doing its job and he’s so fucking close he can taste it. “You gonna fall apart for me?”

“Fuck yeah,” Corey chokes. He is. He’s seconds from it and it feels so good, it’s taking him over, he’s so so close. Jim slides his left hand up Corey’s body, cards his fingers through his hair again, gripping and tugging just a little.

Jim’s voice is barely a whisper when he grunts out, “No, you’re not,” and stands up.

Corey squeaks as he’s dropped onto his ass hard, without warning. There’s no time to try to work out what just happened before Jim’s towering over him, yanking Corey onto his knees. Jim fists one hand in his hair, pulling to the point Corey yells and grabs Jim’s arm, other hand frantically jerking himself off. All Corey can do is grip onto Jim’s wrist and watch helplessly, begging and pleading no no no while Jim pulls and pulls until, with a hoarse cry, he starts to come. Stepping in closer he presses his dick to Corey’s face, smears it all around as he continues to pump what feels like endless amounts of hot come onto his skin. By the time he pulls back, it’s dripping from Corey’s eyelashes, his lips, his fucking chin. Corey’s mouth gapes open, stricken by what just happened, and Jim doesn’t give him a chance to object before cramming his cock in there and hissing at Corey to clean him up. Which he does obediently, tears streaming down his face as he licks as softly as he can.

Chapter Text

“You’re disgusting. You know that, don’t you?”


John doesn’t answer. It’ll make Tim mad, but he doesn’t answer. He wants to retain some semblance of control here. Tim gives him a particularly pointed thrust as he grips John’s hair and yanks it back. His voice is like honey dripping in John’s ear when he speaks.

Tim rasps, “Answer me, slut,” and John whines high in his throat. Fuck , he knows he can’t disobey that voice. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens his mouth to answer, but then Tim is gripping tighter and shaking John’s head, making him yelp. “Open your fucking eyes, cocksucker. Look at yourself.”

John does. He doesn’t want to but he does. The room is dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the curtains, but he can make out his own brown eyes, wet and puffy from crying, face bracketed by his arms where they press against the full-length wardrobe mirror. They shake, straining to hold him up because he’s on his toes, leaning forwards, and Tim’s fucking into him hard. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, always hard . Like he’s trying to drive a point home. John doesn’t know where this mood came from. They’ve played with humiliation before, but Tim’s being particularly harsh tonight.

He gasps as Tim pulls his hair again. “I said , answer me.”

“Yes, fuck , yeah - I’m disgusting. I’m a slut,” he pants, focusing on the relief of the pain in his scalp releasing. Focusing on anything except wondering what made Tim so angry. 

“Yeah you are,” Tim grunts, tightening his grip on John’s hips again. “Look how fucking hard you are. You getting off on being called a slut?” His pace stutters a little. John looks in the mirror again.


He didn’t need Tim to tell him, or to look at his reflection to know he’s hard. John can feel it, heavy where it bobs in time with Tim’s thrusts. It’s fucking leaking too, because again, Tim’s right; John’s getting off on this. When he looks up and sees Tim’s reflection, white skin flushed pink, cold blue eyes full of heat, it makes something in his stomach burn.

Tim leans forward into John, making John shudder when that hot flesh presses against his sweaty back. “What else are you, John? His voice is like molten chocolate and it sinks down to pool in John’s groin, warm and delicious. “Tell me baby,” he continues, “What else makes you the filthy fucker you are?”

Oh shit. Tim knows John hates trying to talk about himself. He’s not good with being put on the spot. It’s embarrassing. John can’t even ask for Tim’s mouth when he wants it. Combine that with having to maintain eye contact with himself and he wishes the ground would swallow him whole. 

Licking his lips, John tries. “I’m, uh - a junkie. I’m fucking a- ah! Addicted to your cock. Just wanna suck it all day every day,” he can feel the flush creeping up even before he can see it. Even in the blue-cast light bathing the room he can see the pink tinge to the apple of his cheeks. He watches Tim lean in, lick a wet stripe up the side of his neck and bite his earlobe. Keeps it firm between his teeth when asks what else?


John’s trying, he really is, but it’s hard to concentrate when he can see his shame written all over his own face. “I - I love being used,” he tells himself. “I need to be used, I need you to just use me.” That makes Tim groan, loud in John’s ear. “I’d do anything for you; crawl on broken glass, beg on my knees. Fuck, Tim, just use me like a toy, like a fucking blow-up doll.” John doesn’t want to admit it, but he sees the lust in his own eyes, the way his mouth is turning up at the corners as he gets more and more turned on the more and more he speaks. 

He sees the way his body ripples and sways when Tim pushes against him, the way the muscles of his legs and arms quiver the longer he tries to hold himself up, pushed up on his toes a little to make up for their height difference. Even Tim looks different; John’s seen him up close and personal while they fuck more time than he can count, but there’s something about seeing him from this angle. The way he bites his lip, the sweat trickling down to pool in the divots of his collarbones, all things that John is usually too fucked-out to notice. Tim’s fingers create dark shadows where they’re deeply pressed into the bones of John’s narrow hips, and John knows he’ll have bruises, hopefully even little crescent moon wounds. 


Tim interrupts John just as he’s begging him to fuck him like a whore. “Oh my god, you are a whore. You’d really do anything for dick wouldn’t you?

He would. Tim’s dick, anyway. Tim’s making him admit all this shit to him and John hates it as much as he loves it. And he does love it. Doesn’t he? If he didn’t then surely he wouldn’t be hard, and surely he’d use their safe word? But he doesn’t. Something in him tells him everything Tim is saying is true. Fresh tears start to run down his cheeks, something John knows sends Tim head over heels, and true to form he watches as Tim leans in and takes hold of John’s face, turns it towards him and licks a tear away. John’s eyes don’t leave his reflection. They can’t. He’s a slave to Tim’s instructions, so he babbles about all his darkest fantasies of dog fucking and toe sucking, all the grossest things he can think of that he’d (probably) never do in a month of Sundays, but admitting to them out loud makes Tim make the sweetest little sounds and John truly is a slut for that.

The more John talks, the more erratic Tim’s thrusts become, and John can tell he’s nearly there. He clenches down a few times, just to be a little shit, and Tim halts. That’s it baby, he thinks. Come for me.


But Tim doesn't come. Tim is pushing John hard, both of them stumbling forward until John’s pressed firm against the mirror’s polished surface. Tim’s eyes meet John’s in the mirror, teeth bared and brow bone furrowed, and John doesn’t dare close his eyes or look away. Being able to see the strained expression on Tim’s face makes him break out in a cold sweat, and it runs down his face to mix with the tears soaking his cheeks. His humid skin sticks to the mirror, pulling against it as Tim rails into him again and again and again, harder and faster than ever. 

“You’re my fuckhole, aren’t you?” he asks, biting John roughly where his neck meets his shoulder. John cries out through gritted teeth, nods his head in agreement. Always Tim’s. Only Tim’s. “No matter who else wants you, no matter who else gets you, you’re mine. Your cock, your hole, your fucking soul , it all belongs to me, understand?”

John comes. His dick pulses against the mirror, and he feels come start to pour out of him to drip down the slick surface. Tim must notice it too, because in a flash John is empty, Tim’s hands are on John’s shoulders and he’s being forced to his knees before Tim’s even come himself. John knows fine well what Tim wants, but he still sits back on his heels and lets Tim force him, hand fisted in cotton candy hair, pushing his face towards the mirror.

He knows exactly what Tim wants, but he still doesn’t do anything until Tim gives him the command: “ Lick.”

Now John has no problem making eye contact with himself. He watches himself stick his tongue out, mouth wide and tongue pink and wet, and press it to the mirror. Under Tim’s watchful gaze, John watches himself clean up his shame. He feels clean, relieved. Complete.



Chapter Text

Jim hates Brian.

That’s not an exaggeration. He Hates him, capital H and everything. Brian is human tennis elbow. He is a pizza burn on the roof of the world’s mouth. If Brian was a dentist appointment, he’d be two dentist appointments.

Brian hates Jim.

Hates him with a burning passion. As far as Brian is concerned, Jim is responsible for all the world’s evils. Jim could be dead and still breathe too loudly, and Brian is firmly convinced that Jim grew those five extra inches just to spite him.

It’s the kind of mutual dislike that is the stuff of legend, that creates headlines and makes people talk, wondering what the hell might happen if they ran into each other in private with no one to pull them off each other mid-fight. Their mutual friends are pretty certain that they’d be impossible to separate once they got going.

Technically, they were right.

There’s no point in getting into who or what started it all. All they know is that one minute they were screaming something in each others faces, Jim saying something about John 5 and Brian something about Joey, the next their faces were mashed together. It was less a kiss than shouting with their lips pressed together. Jim had never thought of kissing as a competitive sport before, but now he’s determined to win Olympic gold and thrash Brian right out the competition. If word of this ever got out, Brian would 100% claim that Jim made the first move and that he himself had tried to fend him off. Neither are really making that much of an effort to stop though.

So they don’t. They don’t stop kissing, until they absolutely have to, and that’s just to walk to the elevators because fucking in a bar is frowned up, however empty it is. There’s a brief scuffle over whose hotel room they’re heading to. Jim wins narrowly with a thumb to the eyeball, hammering Brian’s button when he recoils in pain. Yes, the fight was over wanting to go to each others room, their reasoning being it’s easier to leave than to kick someone out. Pretty sound reasoning, to be fair. Brian stumbles blindly down the hallway, grip firm on Jim’s hand regardless of his attempts to shake him off. An elderly woman sticks her head out of her room, tells them to pipe down, or at least nearly tells them, tailing off towards the end when she’s glared at by two irate giants in weird clothes and way too much makeup. Her door slams shut just as Brian manages to yank his open, manhandling Jim through before him, lest he decide to run away when Brian’s back is turned.

They pick up where they left off, more gnashing of teeth and biting of lips, trying to mask their horny moans with irritated grunts and insults. As Jim’s attempting to shove Brian onto the bed, he walks past the mirror above the dining table. What he sees stops him dead.

“I think I know why that woman was so spooked, dude,” he laughs. Brian pushes up on his elbows, only just noticing the fact that his black lipstick is smeared halfway across Jim’s face.

“It’s your own fault, cos you kiss like a washing machine,” Brian snipes. Jim looks scandalized, responds by slapping the side of Brian’s knee. Brian just sasses, “You could’ve at least wiped it all off, now it’s all over the place.”

"I'm gonna wipe the rest off with my dick if you don't shut up."

Brian wont let Jim get on top of him, keeps trying to twist so he’s on top instead. “You fuckin’ wish, if anyone’s sucking dick here it’s you,” he grits out, hooking a leg around his hips and pushing. Jim tips over with a squeak. Brian’s shaking hands fumble with his belt and fly and Jim doesn’t fucking care how much he detests Brian right at this moment, he’s just hard and desperate to get his dick wet and he doesn’t particularly care who does it.

Reaching out he slaps Brian’s hands away, huffing, “I’ll fucking do it. Gonna die of old age here waiting for you,” he yanks his belt free, ripping his fly open. “Or rather you’ll die of old age, grandpa.”

“Hey,” Brian spits, seizing Jim’s jeans and boxers and pulling. “I’m barely older than you, dick,” he swears, getting tangled in the wallet chain hanging from Jim’s jeans. “Jesus fuck, you wear more jewellery than a chick.”

Jim uses Brian’s distraction to lean up, grab him by the fabric around his hips (is it a skirt? Is it a dress? It could be the fucking Shroud of Turin, Jim can’t fucking tell because Brian wears such weird shit sometimes) and a strap of his suspenders and hauls him over onto his back. In a flash he’s stripped it off, climbing over him to yank off his t-shirt and straddle his chest. Brian tries to push him off with flappy slaps. Jim just grabs his wrists and holds him still. They’re both panting, flushed, pupils blown and lips kiss-swollen. Jim notices Brian’s eyes trailing down his naked body and instinctively wants to cover himself, but that would mean letting Brian go, and that’s not happening. Not while he currently has the upper hand.

Brian’s voice catches a little when he licks his lips and says, “I hate your guts but damn, you got a pretty cock.” Jim colours even more, skin blushing scarlet. He has no earthly idea how to respond to that. Accepting praise isn’t his strong suit.

“Shut up and fucking suck it, then,” he mumbles, trying not to lose his edge. Shifting up a little he pins Brian’s biceps down with his knees, leaning forwards a little and bracing his palms on the wall above the headboard. For some strange reason Brian doesn’t put up a fight, just lifts his head and tongues the tip of Jim’s cock, and Jim doesn’t even try to muffle the horrifically loud moan that drags out of him. Shit, Brian’s got a big mouth in more ways than one. The rumours going around backstage were true; Brian sucks cock like he’s dying for it. Licking and slurping the head like a fucking ice cream cone, pushing those puffy lips down, down, until Jim’s nudging the back of his throat. Jim waits for a sign of reluctance, to be told to stop. Instead Brian takes an asscheek in each big hand and pulls Jim in even deeper.

Holy shit, Jim’s seeing gods he doesn’t even believe in, and taking names in vain like he’s speaking in tongues. He pumps in tiny thrusts while Brian massages that spot below the head with the flat of his tongue, and Jim's pretty sure he’s forgotten his own name. Brian’s clearly trying to prove a point, the competitive prick that he is. Jim will never admit it, but it’s easily some of the best head he’s had in recent memory. It’s true what they say; nobody does it better than the enemy. You’re never gonna get fucked better than by someone who wants to prove they’re better at it than you.

Brian’s just hitting his stride when he feels Jim try to pull back. He whines, mouth still stuffed full, sucking harder to try and keep him in there. If Jim hasn’t come, Brian’s not done. But then two calloused fingers are working this way into his mouth, breaking the suction and hooking into his cheek to pull his head down against the pillow. When he looks up Jim looks fucking wrecked, sweating so hard the lipstick Brian had streaked everywhere is running even further, the last remnants of Jim’s greasepaint running from his eyes like mascara-tinted tears. It makes something swell in Brian’s stomach. The fire of competition, a burning need to prove that he’s the best. From the lost expression on Jim’s face, Brian would say he’s done a pretty good job.

Blinking hard, Jim tries to get his bearings. Most of his blood’s still in his fucking dick and he can’t think straight for how tight the pressure in his balls is. Thankfully he’s distracted a minute later by Brian sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of his inner thigh. He hisses, pulls on the fingers in Brian’s mouth.

“What the fuck was that for?” he barks, tightening his thighs when Brian thrashes under him. It doesn’t occur to Jim that it’d be easier for Brian to answer if he took his fingers out of his mouth. At least, it doesn’t until he bites them. “Fuck,” he bellows, rolling to the side onto his butt and trying to clutch both injured areas at the same time. Brian just laughs a filthy laugh.

Jim opts to ignore him, instead getting up on wobbly legs to start pawing through the drawers in the bedside table. Brian sits up, frowning? “Uh, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Where the fuck’s the lube?” Jim hisses, slamming a drawer shut.

The frown deepens. “Why do you want lube?”

Jim looks at him like he’s stupid, which according to Jim, Brian is. “I want lube, Brian, because I don’t particularly want to fuck you dry, despite how much you’d probably enjoy that. I know you’re full of shit but that doesn’t mean it makes good lubricant.”

Brian jumps off the bed, incensed. No one calls him Brian and gets away with it. “Uh, I think you’ll find I’m going to be fucking you, so I need to find my lube, not you,” They’re the same height with Brian in his huge boots. Eye to eye they stand, and Brian only breaks that contact to lean down, reach into his toiletry bag, and pull out a travel-size bottle of lube. It’s flavoured, Jim notes. Cherry. Brian looks so fucking smug. Jim’s almost tempted to wipe the look off his face. With his fist. Instead he gives him a smile of his own, sliding his hand around Brian’s own where it holds the bottle. Brian frowns, confused.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

Jim just smiles wider. “Nothing.”

Except giving Brian a hard shove to the chest, knocking him off balance because his balance in those boots is nowhere near as steady as Jim’s in his socked feet. Brian yelps, grabbing Jim’s arm and dragging him down. That’s fine, that’s where he wanted to be. He doesn’t give Brian time to process what’s happening, just lubes up his fingers and slides them between their legs.

Brian tries to push him off. “Fuck off dude, I said it was my turn!” he whines, dick twitching as Jim circles his rim. A whorish cry rips out of him when Jim shoves in two fingers all at once. “Jesus, Jim, what the fuck, are you digging for gold or something?”

“Shut the fuck up man, I’m trying to find your G-spot,” Jim mutters, rubbing around Brian’s insides til he finds it. One touch has him seizing up, clutching Jim’s arms with a bruising grip and panting oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, over and over. Jim grins. Working in a third finger, he thrusts his fingers in and out, back and forth, using the full strength of his arm to make sure he reaches in far enough to stimulate that little bundle of nerves again and again. All too soon Brian is begging Jim to fuck him, pleading again and again, and Jim’s hands are shaking so hard he can barely get the lube open again. Brian snatches it off him, dumps it out on his fingers and complains about Jim being slow, echoing their argument from earlier. Jim just rolls his eyes and tells him to fuck off.

It’s still a struggle to pop the head of his dick into Brian’s hole, but when he does they both groan in relief. He doesn’t start pounding into him straight away, gives them both a minute to adjust and catch their breath. Jim’s amazed that someone who claims to get his ass pounded as often as Brian apparently does could be so tight, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it before Brian’s digging the heels of his boots into Jim’s thighs. So he starts moving, slowly at first, building momentum and gaining speed until he’s pumping into Brian’s loose and lazy body with disgustingly loud slaps. He has a sudden vision of the little old lady next door listening against the wall with a glass, and he briefly considers trying to quiet down, but figures if she hears something she doesn’t like then that’s on her. Serves her right for eavesdropping.

Brian can’t get comfortable. Everything Jim’s doing everything right and it feels amazing (and he hates him for it) but his ankles keep slipping when he tries to hook them behind Jim’s back, and his legs are starting to hurt the way he’s having to hold them up. He whines, writhing under Jim, until he stops and fixes him with a glare.

“What, what’s wrong? You’re wriggling like an earthworm under a magnifying glass and it’s pissing me off,” Jim growls. Brian whines again, rubbing one aching thigh.

“I can’t get my legs right, they keep slipping.”

“Well maybe if you’d taken off those ridiculous fucking boots it’d be easier!”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Well it’s too fucking late now so what are we gonna do abou-” he’s cut off as Jim grabs him behind the knees and forces his legs up, knees nearly at his ears. He can’t breathe, practically folded in half. If anyone took a picture of this scene right now, it would prove unequivocally that Marilyn Manson cannot, in fact, suck his own dick. If anything he’s feeling rather inflexible. None of that matters right now, because Jim’s plunging into him again and again, assaulting his prostate and making him see stars. It’s mind-blowing, almost literally Brian thinks because between that and the fact he can’t breathe, he feels like his head’s about to explode. Jim pumps harder, faster, Brian can’t hold it any longer, he’s -

“Wsfgt?” is all Brian can get out before he’s shooting off between his legs. He feels a splash of come hit his chin and jerks his head back without thinking, bashing into Jim’s nose. Jim yells, fuck fuck fuck, but then the tone changes. Fu - uck? and Brian suddenly feels full and warm, and he realizes Jim’s coming, the pain from the hit sending him over the edge. He can fucking feel Jim's dick twitching inside him, still rubbing against his prostate, and he nearly blacks out.

It takes a good five minutes for them to move again, both blinking their unfocused eyes and trying to catch their breath. Jim can feel his nose bleeding, dripping onto Brian’s chest. Had he not just had one of the most incredible orgasms of his life he’d be licking the blood off him. As it is, he’s not entirely certain he’s still alive.

“I can’t feel my fucking legs.” Jim whispers.

“Good. Prick.” Brian replies, voice raw.

“I fucking hate you.”

Brian pats Jim’s cheek absently. “Love you too, dear.”

Chapter Text

“Did you buy lube?”

“Yes, I bought lube.”

“Did you buy extra lube?” The first voice rises in pitch with a quaver of panic.

The second voice sighs. “Yes, I bought extra lube. I bought so much lube that the cashier looked concerned for you well-being.” There’s a slapping sound, and the second voice laughing and saying “Ow!” in a very unconvincing manner. “Babe, chill,” it continues. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

Jim, owner of the first voice, isn’t entirely convinced. Lube is honestly the least of his worries, but he’s not gonna tell Corey that. There’s no point, you can’t physically change your anatomy. Well, not this quickly, anyway.

Corey’s walking out of the bathroom. Jim’s still sitting on the edge of the bath, looking down at his shaking hands. He looks up when Corey says his name. He cocks his head towards the bedroom, asking if he’s coming. With a last deep inhale and exhale, Jim stands and follows him through.

Everything’s fine until he gets to the bed. Corey just grabs his arm. “C’moooooon, Jim. We talked about this, it’s gonna be fine!” He pulls until Jim relents and knees up onto the bed. When Corey reaches up and pulls him down into a kiss Jim’s mind swims, as it always does. But he needs to keep his wits about him tonight, they both do.

He’s trying to be as patient with Jim as he possibly can be, but Corey’s starting to get antsy. He’s the one that’s about to get fisted for fuck’s sake, he should be nervous, not Jim. Breaking the kiss, he opts to not waste any more time, and so flips onto his stomach and up onto his knees, cheek rested on his folded forearms. Jim’s eyes are running up and down the length of his body; Corey knows this without even looking. Then there are big, warm hands running across his back, down the length of his spine, cupping around his flanks…

When Jim digs his fingers into his asscheeks Corey squeaks. “Stop fucking teasing me and do it,” he whines, but Jim doesn’t stop, keeps stroking and kneading every muscle he can reach.

“You need to relax, sweetheart,” Jim murmurs, voice like velvet. It runs through Corey, loosens his limbs and makes him melt into the bed a little. The way Jim’s rubbing him is kinda nice. “There we go,” croons Jim, lips warm against Corey’s skin when he presses kisses down his spine, his path obvious. “I just want to get you warmed up.”

“Mmhmmm, please,” Corey starts, stiffens a little when Jim’s wet tongue touches his hole, but as Jim starts to lick in tiny, gentle strokes he relaxes again. Jim takes his time, works at Corey slowly, first licking him till he’s dripping wet, then guiding in one finger, two. When he can take both comfortably, he uses them to hold Corey open so he can work his tongue even further in side. Corey’s pretty sure he’s having a religious experience already. Fuck knows what’s gonna happen when Jim manages to get his whole hand in there. He’ll probably beg for his hand in marriage then pass out. As slutty and attractive a prospect as that is, Corey wants to be around for this. He’s never been fisted before. Fuck, taking Jim’s dick had been a struggle the first few times, they’d nearly ran out of lube before they got it right. But now he’s a dab hand, knows what he’s doing; when to bear down, when to fuck himself on those long, elegant fingers, how long to stay still to let his body adjust. They know what they’re doing.

So when Corey whines that he’s ready for more, that he needs more, Jim obliges him. He’s doing an excellent job of covering up his nerves, Corey thinks. His hands are shaking far less than they were in the bathroom. Jim just squirts the lube straight over Corey’s hole, making him jump and shiver, but then he’s rubbing it in and warming it up and sinking three fingers straight down to the knuckle, and Corey purrs. Can’t resist pushing himself back a bit, fucking himself off those digits while he can because soon, he’s going to have to rely on Jim to do all the hard work.

It’s when Jim’s working his pinkie in Corey first breaks a sweat. It feels incredible but it really is a stretch. And not just at his rim either; he can feel it all the way up where Jim’s opening him further and further. He doesn’t just thrust in and out aimlessly either. Oh no. Jim curls his fingers, stroking the soft walls of Corey’s insides, pushing them apart with a terrible gentleness. Straightening his fingers and curling on the way out, he grazes Corey’s prostate over and over, making him gasp and shake, then skips it to let him settle down. Corey’s already starting to feel undone and they’re barely half way. It makes his breathing quicken, sweat rolling down his neck, and he reaches behind him to grab Jim’s wrist.

“What -?” Jim starts, but he bites it off with a huffed inhale when Corey bears down and pushes hard on Jim’s hand, pushing all four fingers in. Both of them moan, loud and hot, and Corey wishes he could see Jim’s face now. He knows he’s staring at his hand where it’s buried to the knuckles in Corey’s ass, green eyes wide with disbelief. Corey knows it as well as he knows that if Jim doesn’t hurry up and finally fist him properly, Corey’s gonna lose his patience and do it himself. He opens his mouth to say as much, but then Jim rubs at that sweet spot behind his balls and Corey’s vision whites out for a minute. The noise he makes isn’t human, and he has to slap Jim’s arms a few times to make him stop.

“Stop, stop,” he pants, “Too close, don’t wan-don’t wanna come yet,” Jim stops and makes to withdraw his hand. No no no, that’s the opposite of what Corey wants. He needs more, he needs it now, he wants it so desperately he feels his fingers clench into fists and tears start to prick at his eyes in frustration. He’s rasping no baby, no, but Jim shushes him, making soothing sounds and rubbing his back.

“It’s ok Corey, I’m just getting more lube,” he says, and Corey breathes a sigh of relief as he hears multiple bottles knock into each other on the bed. “That’ll save me having to stop again.”
He could honestly weep with gratitude when Jim stuffs him full again. Precome strings in a thick rope between his dick and the bed, and everything feels full and heavy where it hands between his thighs. Because he’s trying so hard to stay relaxed, he thinks. If he were tense everything would be drawn up and tight, but he’s on his way to being so blissed out that he couldn’t contract a muscle even if he wanted to. And he really doesn’t want to.

His forehead creases though, when Jim’s movement slows. Corey had expected him to start trying to guide his thumb in this time, but it feels like Jim’s losing his nerve. His hand is shaking more than before and Corey can feel it all the way down to where their thighs press against one another. Come on Jim, he pleads internally, Stay with me. Then he feels Jim’s fingers start to pull out and panic floods his stomach.

“I - I’m sorry Corey, I just. It’s -” he cuts Jim off by grabbing his wrist again. Jim tenses, doesn’t let Corey pull him in again this time. “It’s just a lot, I need - I need a sec,” he stammers.

Corey growls. “Don’t you fucking dare Jim, I swear to god,” he grits out between his teeth.

He can hear the wince in Jim’s voice when he says, “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

Corey huffs in frustration, torn between getting what he wants and forcing Jim past his limits. He knows in the end Jim will give him what he wants, but he wants Jim to enjoy this too; it’s not just about Corey, it’s about them doing this together, sharing something important and getting closer than ever. So, he takes a couple of deep breaths, releasing his hold on Jim’s wrist. Jim doesn’t pull it away, keeps his fingers where they are, still slightly buried inside Corey.

He looks over his shoulder as best he can. Jim’s hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his pupils are blown so wide Corey can only just make out a little green left. He’s thankful for the proof that Jim’s getting off on this. It’s something. Jim’s fingers are also still moving, stroking softly against his insides as they look at each other. Keeping his voice gentle, he tries his best to sound reassuring.

“Look, I know it’s scary, but trust me; I want this,” He stresses his point at the end. “I know what I can and can’t take, and I promise I’ll use the safeword if I have to, ok?”

Jim’s brow creases and he chews his lip. Corey’s trying not to shake with pent-up need, trying to stay relaxed and loose, but it’s hard. Eventually Jim seems to make his mind up, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Just starts to ease his fingers back in, this time thumb tucked in.

Corey’s mouth drops open but no sound comes out at first, fuck fuck fuck he feels so goddamned full. There’s no other word for it. The pressure is incredible, and it hurts but it’s eclipsed but how good it feels. Jim’s knuckles rub at his rim for a second, then with a popping sensation they’re in, and Corey coughs out a yell. He must spasm down against Jim’s hand, because he hears a distant grunt. They’re so close, so close that he can taste it like he feels like he can taste Jim’s hand in his fucking throat. It feels like one wrong twist would send it thrusting out of his stomach, or against his kidneys, one wrong movement and he’ll be perforated and leaking to death in his own digestive juices. That really shouldn’t feel as hot as it does, but Corey never claimed to be anything other than perverted and wrong. He knows who he is. And Jim knows who he is. That’s why they work so well together.

They’re both soaked with sweat and lube, along with the bed, and Corey can feel Jim start to try and get the base of his thumb in. The last frontier, the home stretch. But it’s a lot, and he begs Jim to stop for just a second, let him catch his breath. Jim obliges, using his free hand to rub slow gentle circles down Corey’s back, murmuring quiet, soothing words. It works. Corey feels his heartbeat start to settle down to something resembling normal, and tells Jim “Green” in a shaking voice.

One last good push, and it’s in. Corey chokes out a cry like he’s been stabbed. Jim echoes it. He feels his hole close down around Jim’s wrist and jumping jesus christ on a crutch it’s horrific. He’s never felt pain like it. He’s never known pleasure like it. It’s a feeling of fullness he never thought was possible. Like Jim’s filling up ever fucking cell in his body, taking over his mind and soul and everything in between. Corey’s not certain he’ll ever feel anything more incredible in his life.

Then Jim’s dripping more lube onto them, drizzling it down the cleft of his ass and onto his own wrist, rubbing it around with his free hand. Corey’s not sure what’s going on.

Jim starts moving his hand. Corey loses his shit.

His brain shuts down, shakes wracking his body. Jim’s only moving mere millimetres, but it’s enough to stimulate every fucking nerve ending in Corey’s entire body. He can hear colours and see through time. There’s no way anything could possibly feel better than this. He was wrong before, this is it. This is the pinnacle of human please.

Then Jim wraps that free, lubed-up hand around Corey’s cock and pulls once, twice, three times.

Corey blacks out, mouth opening in a silent scream as his orgasm rips through him. He spills onto the bed, fast and hot, and his breath comes in gasping wheezes as he’s rolled through the rip currents again and again. By the time the aftershocks stop and he can force his eyes open again, he’s pretty sure he’s forgotten Math. His nerves are on fire again, but now it’s the burn of overstimulation, and since he still hasn’t regained the power of speech, he can only reach back and tug at Jim’s wrist, hoping he gets the message.

He does. Slowly, gently, they work together to help Jim ease his hand out. It takes a few minutes but nothing like getting it in, and when it’s gone Corey feels bereft, empty. It’s cold and unpleasant, but then he feels Jim’s breath against him and it soothes the sensation somewhat.
“Sorry baby,” he breathes. He sounds every bit as fucked-out and spacey as Corey feels. “I just had to have a look. You’re so fucking open, christ. It’s amazing.”

Corey grins, dizzy and dazzled. All he can think is how proud of them both he is. He managed to take Jim’s whole fucking hand. And Jim does not have small hands. He has long, slender hands with elegant digits that took up a hell of a lot of room in there. It was worth it though. Worth every second.

There’s some shuffling behind him, and then Corey cries out, shocked and a little pained, as he feels Jim’s dick sink into him. Jim babbles “I’m sorry, sorry, I just - I have to,” Even as stretched as he is it feels gloriously big, and he can tell from Jim’s high-pitched moans that he wont be long. Corey clenches his muscles as best he can, and Jim’s breath starts catching in his throat as he holds it. Fuck, Corey loves it when he does that. There are no words for how wanton and slutty he feels right now, his gaping asshole being fucked even wider by his boyfriend who likes to hold his own breath during sex. How did he get so fucking lucky? Corey just lies there, lets Jim fuck into him hard and fast until he’s groaning out, airy and blissful. When he pulls out, instantly flopping onto his back to wheeze like he’s dying, his come just pours out of Corey. It feels slick and weird and above all, slutty. Just how Corey likes.

Eventually Corey manages to get his muscles to work and he slides down to lie on his side, back to Jim who instantly curls up against him, arm tight around his waist. Corey sighs and smiles, feeling warm and safe and loved. His eyes sleepily start to drift shut, but not before he catches sight of the state of the other side of the bed.

“Shit. We should’ve put a towel down.”

Chapter Text

In air still thick with the hazy heat of a late-blooming summer, an air conditioner whirrs. It’s not alone; even at midnight everything is still humid, so AC units run through the night in every home lucky enough to have one. Some would consider Jim one of the lucky ones, and during the day he would agree. At night, though. Night’s a different story.

He pours himself a glass of soda, chugging it down with his nightly medication. The drone of the AC is already setting his teeth on edge, which doesn’t bode well for a restful night’s sleep. Meds can only do so much, and if Jim’s already agitated they’re really not gonna work to their best potential. He glances at the window. The tall trees outside sway slightly, a stiffer breeze than had been present during the day. It makes him think. It’s not exactly ideal, but it might just be better than the alternative. Crossing the room he heaves his window open, pushing through the sticky spot of the runner, and the breeze is cool and refreshing where it hits his bare midriff. He shivers. Ok, it’s not as strong or as chilly as the AC, but as he turns the dial to ‘OFF’ and the mechanical mumbling stops, the relief he feels makes it all worth it. 

Pulling off the last of his sweat-soaked clothes he collapses into bed, not even bothering the pull the sheets up over him, and lets the pharmaceuticals work their magic.


Consciousness starts to filter in like grey mist around the periphery of Jim’s vision, and his eyelashes flutter as he tries to clear the proverbial cobwebs. They don’t shift. The hand that he lifts to scrub at his eyes feels...odd. Heavy. And not just in the normal, just-woke-up way. Actually, not heavy like lead, but difficult to move. Like he’s pushing through air that’s thicker than air ought to be, still warm, honeyed and sweet. Jim’s no stranger to strange occurrences during the night. Why else would be be on fucking meds to help him actually get a normal nights sleep? This feels different though; this isn't the bitter tang of break-through insomnia, or the achingly tense fear of sleep paralysis. It’s similar, but Jim...doesn’t feel ill at ease. Confused, yes, but otherwise unperturbed. Something’s pulling at him, a vague sensation, urging him to roll over. 

With what feels like an almighty effort, he unsticks himself from the pillow and rolls slowly over in bed to face the window. He should probably die of fright, or scream, or maybe even just die where he lies. None of those things happen, though, when he sees the figure sitting on his windowsill. Huh. Strange. Maybe he’s still asleep. The figure seems pretty male-presenting, dressed in ragged black clothes with a shock of wild hair that he keeps raking his...fingers? Yeah Jim’s pretty sure they’re fingers and not talons or anything. He keeps pushing his hair back with them. Looks soft, he thinks muzzily. Clean. Bet smell nice. Jim frowns, hearing his thoughts and knowing he sounds drunk or stoned, or both. Nah, he’s just half asleep, it’s fine. He’s fine. There’s just a random guy at his window and Jim doesn’t know why but he still seems to be alive so why not roll with it.

The person, for the want of a better word, cocks his head, curious. “I was about to say you don’t need to be scared but - you’re not scared.” It’s not a question, just a matter of fact statement. And he’s right; Jim’s not scared. Intrigued, confused, maybe a little dizzy, but nope, definitely not scared. Jim just shrugs as best he can. The figure smiles.

“Good...that’s good,” He jumps down from the sill, landing soundlessly on the wooden floor. That should seem strange to Jim. People make noise when they hit surfaces, especially while wearing heavy black boots. His brain doesn’t question it. Just stares at the person as he walks towards Jim and slowly, carefully, gets up onto the bed on his knees and moves towards Jim. Jim waits for his limbs to retract, his fight or flight response to kick in, but all he feels is that same syrupy weight to his body and brain, and he wants to know what the hell is happening too much to stop whatever is going on. He does have one burning question though.


“Who -” he pauses, licks his lips. “Who are you?”

The guy pauses, seems taken aback. He thinks for a second before responding. “I...don’t really think I’m a ‘who’? More of a ‘what’ if that makes sense?” shrugging, he continues, “I’ve never really thought about it. Why?”

Jim gets exactly what he means. For some reason. And he’s not sure why. Asking why is a very human response to things though, so it’s not that weird to wonder. “I don’t know. I just like - think you should have a name? People have names. Are you people?”

That makes the guy laugh, warm and rich and it makes Jim’s belly flutter inside. “Nah, I’m not people. I’m part of a people, you could say? But I’m not a person in the classical sense.”

Jim just nods. Sure, cool, whatevs. “So, why are you being not-a-person in my bedroom dude? If you are a dude and not, like...a ghost or whatever. Do you have a name?” 

“Um,” he pauses. Even through the haze, Jim can see the figure seems confused. His brow furrows as he rubs his chin. Jim can hear the scrape of stubble. It’s an oddly solid sound, especially coming from someone who seems ever so slightly see-through. “I - I’m pretty sure I’m a dude. We only come in two types. Like I’m an Incubus, I’m meant to have sex with women,” he rolls his eyes. Jim giggles like he’s drunk. “And then the girl ones, they’re called Succubus. They’re supposed to appear to men.

Jim lazily waves a hand towards his naked form. “I am demonstrably not female.”

Another hearty chuckle, another butterfly let loose in Jim’s gut. “Yeah OK, that’s true, but uh...I don’t think that’s important? Like, what even is gender to me if I’m a demon that can technically look however I want. Also, the plural of Incubus is Incu-BI after all!” 

They both crack up at the terrible pun, then soft warm lips are on Jim’s and hands that feel like dusty velvet are pushing him back into the pillows. There’s some weight to the body on top of him, he can feel fabric and skin and heat beneath his hands, but there’s still something so wholly not there about him. Like he’s shifting through Jim, not just onto him. The kisses deepen, quicken, biting teeth and twisting tongues and Jim hasn’t been this hard in forever.


Something makes him stop. He has to know before they go any further. “Wait, wait - what’s your name?” Jim gasps, panting.

The demon pauses, confused, like why the hell does this guy care more about names than fucking?? “Emm, I’m not sure. I think you want it to be...Corey? Is that right?”

Jim has no idea why it sounds right, but it does. If that’s the name the fates have decreed his demon visitor is to have, he’s not going to argue. He nods.

Corey smiles. It’s sweet and reaches his bright blue eyes. “And you’re Jim, right?” Jim nods. “Well, now that we’re acquainted, may I continue to make your acquaintance?”

Jim doesn’t answer, just reaches up to hold Corey’s face in sweaty palms. He’s never felt like this before. If this is what lucid dreaming is all about then Jim definitely needs to buy some of those Skillshare lessons on how to do it on purpose because Corey’s nimble fingers are working devilish magic on his nipples, following them with hot licks and barely-there bites. It feels like being brushed with cotton wool wrapped around barbed wire, a strange combination of sensations that makes Jim feel even woozier than he did already. He keeps trying to touch Corey back, but it’s like his hands can’t make contact on the important bits; they just keep drifting back to his arms, his spine, his waist, and when Corey works his way between Jim’s thighs, he holds tight to Corey’s face. It’s reassuringly solid, feels like there’s actually blood pulsing below the skin, though Jim knows that’s impossible. He wants to say something about lube, something about condoms, but it’s like he knows in his heart that it’s not necessary. Despite the fact that it's pretty much only for show, Corey still goes through the process of fingering Jim open. There’s no pain. No fear. Just the good kind of pressure and then that feeling of being full, and happy. Corey’s lips are moving and Jim’s sure he’s saying the most beautiful nonsense, but he’ll be damned if he can make out a word. Corey’s voice just flows through him like molten chocolate, melting Jim into the bed.


Then Corey’s close to him, over him, inside him, and oh , Jim feels that feeling again. There’s pressure again, the best kind, gooder than good, along with what feels like fire and light. He’s cold though, Corey, where their bodies meet. Jim can’t process it, has absolutely no need to. Just accepts it as just another fact in a series of strange facts. In and out and in and out Corey moves, and Jim mouths uselessly at Corey’s lips as all those beautiful words drip into his soul. They roll together, feel whole together, and Jim has a distant memory of something that got him off once. It’s not a desperate want or anything, but the next thing he knows Corey’s hand is pressing flat across the span of Jim’s throat. He grips, tightens, Jim chokes, splutters. The wooly feeling in his head increases, pink and fluffy and dear god Jim’s been dizzy before but never in a way that makes him feel this good. The rings on Corey’s fingers dig into him, comfortingly cold and solid in a world of diaphanous textures. Corey’s hips are rolling against him, smooth undulations that rub Jim’s nerves in all the right places. Tears roll down his temples as another memory flits unbidden through his mind, a kind of sequel as it were. 

Slowly, gently, Corey lets up the pressure on Jim’s throat. Jim gasps, the rush of oxygen breaking his eyes open like he’s seeing into a different world. There are no words in the human language to explain the feeling; maybe Corey knows some, might have time to teach Jim. Corey takes hold of his wrists where Jim’s hands are clutching Corey’s ribs, presses kisses to the paper-thin skin of each wrist, and guides them above Jim’s head. Jim can’t help but cry out as Corey speeds up, tightening his grip on Jim’s wrists and squeezing, just the way Jim likes. Fuck it’s been such a long time since he’s felt that, since he’s felt this good. It’s gentle, and rough, and explosive, and gentle. It feels like every time Jim’s ever made love in his life, all rolled into one. Corey presses hot kisses to Jim’s collarbones, works his way up to claim his lips again, and moans breathlessly into Jim’s mouth when he starts to come between them. There’s none of the usual hot stickiness though; just more of that light, airy sensation that’s been on the periphery of the whole encounter. Jim’s brain goes blank, his vision white, and Corey’s warm hand caressing his cheek is the last thing he feels before his eyes crash shut.

When sunlight pries Jim’s eyes open again, he feels similarly groggy but there’s none of the lethargy from the previous night. He looks around him, feels his belly, checks the covers: everything’s dry. His dick’s soft. He’s alone. Frowning, he takes stock. Of course he has no doubt that it was a dream, but still...what a fucking dream. It still feels real, like he expects to be able to feel Corey’s skin in his hands again. He flexes his fingers a few times, looks down at his hands. They’re there, they’re normal, they’re -

He stops dead, staring down at his hands. Or more accurately, his wrists. Cloudy blue and purple marks stain his skin, sneaking between his tattoos like watercolour paints. A hand flies to his throat; it’s tender, feels bruised when he swallows. Frantically his brain tries to come up with some excuse, some reason why he’s got these marks of something that couldn’t possibly have happened. The sun shifts behind some clouds, sending a dazzling ray through the window, catching the facets of something on Jim’s bedside table, glare slashing through his dozy vision. Blinking, he turns to look, pats his hands around blindly til he feels it; an object that definitely wasn’t there the night before. He turns to hold it up to the warm sunlight, jaw opening in disbelief.


Corey’s ring. 

Chapter Text

“No, you fuck off, Tim!” John bellows. He swings the door shut behind him, but he’s not fast enough and Tim gets the toe of his boot inside just before it slams shut. John rounds on him, yelling “Leave me alone!”, pushing on the door because he's really not in the fucking mood to talk to his supposed apparent boyfriend, who supposedly apparently finds it appropriate to flirt like a whore right in front of John.

“Babe, I said I was sorry,” Tim’s voice is muffled where his face is pressed against the gap in the door. One firm shove and John's skinny arms are no match for Tim's superior size and strength, and he’s pushed John away to get in properly, shutting the door behind him. John huffs, stays facing away from the door because he knows if he looks at Tim while he's got that pleading look on his face he'll cave, then be on his knees and regretting not sticking up for himself while he sucks the very memory of anyone else out of Tim bodily.

“I don’t want to hear it, Tim. I don’t want to talk about it.” He hears Tim whine, frustrated, but still chooses not to turn around. “Just get out.”

He's pretty sure he's being ridiculous. He's pretty sure he's exaggerating things in his head, blowing everything out of proportion but its just that he can't stop picturing it, picturing things that haven't happened but he can't stop imagining: Tim's hands on her waist, tracing the soft curves of her hips, her tits. Claiming her lips, running his down the length of her body while his hands circle her tiny waist. She's probably wearing lingerie, sheer and barely there, and Tim's dick will twitch, hard and aching, as he strips it away from her milky skin.

It's almost too much for John to take and he nearly bursts into tears right there and then.

Tim's voice cuts through the torturous thoughts like a knife. "It was an accident. And I didn't honestly think you'd care that much."

"Of course I fucking care!"John throws his head back and his hands up, exasperated. "Like I know we’re not exclusive or anything, but I've still got feelings! You didn’t need to do it right in front of me."

Tim huffs, raising an eyebrow. "Like I said, I didn't think you'd care, seeing as you're getting plenty of attention from elsewhere yourself."

That's it. That is it. John doesn't need this, doesn't need to stick around to hear it. He moves to walk around Tim to the door. If Tim wont leave, John will. His hand’s nearly on the handle when Tim yanks him back, spins him around to face him. His blue eyes are burning, John can’t quite tell with anger or anguish or what, but it makes his resolve waver for a second, because John hates it when Tim’s upset.

“You’re just jealous because Jim’s ignoring you and I’m getting all the attention for once.”

John acts before he thinks. Rearing back he spits once, hard, straight in Tim’s face. The way he flinches is perversely satisfying. He doesn’t let John go though, instead grabs his other arm and pushes forward. John inhales sharply as he has to jog backward a little to avoid being knocked over, and the air’s knocked out of him when Tim slams him into the wall. Their eyes meet, John’s locked on the fleck of spittle clinging to Tim’s eyelash.

“You little shit,” Tim rasps, "Why do you even care who I flirt with?"

"Because I love you, you idiot!"

John regrets the words then second they're out his mouth. It's too much. Tim's gonna go bush. He braces himself for the rebuke, but there's only a deep growl from Tim before he's slamming their mouths together. John doesn’t miss a beat, meeting Tim’s tongue in the middle and moaning into his mouth despite his brain telling him he’s definitely going to lose the argument if he surrenders to Tim so easily. His heart’s not operating rationally though, and he lets Tim pull him away from the wall, strip him naked, and drag him over towards the bed. Wrapping his arms around John, Tim lets himself topple backwards onto the bed, dragging John on top of him. His voice is thing and wheezy when he says, “Do it again.”

John’s not sure what he means at first, blood rushing to his dick leaving his brain dumb and wooly. He gets there after a second though, grinning. Bracing himself on his knees he leans over Tom, faces inches apart, and spits again. Tim still recoils a little, but a slow smile creeps across his face at the same time. Flicking his tongue out he catches what he can of what landed around his mouth. John feels like his eyes are about to fall out of his head. He still hates Tim, but when he arches up to start mouthing hot wet kisses to John's neck and chest, his resolve starts to waver.

Tim's hands land in his shoulders and that breaks the last of John's restraint, and he goes lax and pliable when Tim starts pushing him downwards. John lets his tongue trace his movements, leaving a snail trail of saliva then sliding his hands through it, mapping the plains of Tim's stomach and ribs and everywhere he can reach. Tim shudders. John smirks. When he gets to his goal he sits up a little, taking Tim's dick at the base as he sucks his cheeks, and grabs Tim's chin. Tugging until he looks at him, he keeps a hold as he grins, starts to push the spit through his teeth until it streams out in a river of drool. Tim makes a noise like he's about to start crying, and it turns into a cry when the saliva hits the tip of his dick. John doesn't stop, keeps drooling and nothing more, as Tim whines and grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Fuck, John," Tim sounds like he's dying. John loves it, fucking dares any other person to make Tim make noises like that. "Fuck - fucking spit on it.” John doesn’t hesitate, just makes a horrible noise in the back of his throat a few times then hocks it out right on the head of Tim’s dick. He wastes no time in slicking his hand down through it, spreading the saliva everywhere while Tim groans like he’s getting the best head of his life. John keeps doing it, alternates spitting and drooling and fucking his mouth over Tim’s length with barely any pressure. Just lets himself go to town, slobbering like a dog with about as much self-awareness. Every so often he has to stop, gulp down some of the water from the nightstand to rehydrate. His lips and tongue are starting to hurt but Tim’s too close now to stop.

John’s eyes settle on a can of soda next the bottle of water. It’s full-sugar Coke. Not his usual choice, too much sugar, but hell. It’s only gonna be a couple of mouthfuls, right? Tim lets out a confused noise when John sits up, takes the can and opens it. John takes a couple of sips, like everything’s normal, he’s just getting a drink.

Tim’s caught completely unawares when John takes a big drink and holds it in his mouth before descending on Tim’s cock again. He convulses, lettings out a guttural squeal when the fizzy liquid hits his cock and he twitches against John’s lips as the sticky soda leaks out the corners of his mouth to dribble down the side. Swallowing John pulls off, grinning wickedly, and starts lapping up the soda that spilled like he’s trying to get to the centre of a Tootsie Pop. That’s it, that’s the last straw, and when he feels that vein start to throb he just manages to seal with lips back around the tip as Tim hits his peak. John can’t help but stare up at Tim as he comes undone, mouth dropped open as he coughs out a stuttered groan. John takes it all, swallows every hot drop.
Well, nearly every drop.

John continues suckling gently, nursing Tim through the high, before letting him softly fall from his lips. With slow, careful movements he crawls up Tim’s body until they’re face to face. Tim’s eyes are still closed, head tipped back and mouth still open. John strokes his hand down his cheek, and Tim jerks back into the moment. John smiles at him, nicely, none of the cheshire cat meanness that’s fueled the evening so far. Tim doesn’t fall for it, knows John’s got something up his sleeve. Or in his mouth, as the case may be.

He doesn’t say anything, just opens his mouth again, slowly unfurling his tongue and presenting it to John like a gift as he closes his eyes. John’s the one with the gift though, as far as Tim’s concerned. John mirrors the image, tongue rolling out to let the mound of come and splittle run down his tongue and drip from the tip, over and over, straight onto Tim's tongue. The second the first drop hits Tim moans, loud and hungry, John echoing it as he squeezes his cheeks, pushing more saliva out and forward. It mixes with the come, sliding another few drops off the tip. John spits the rest out, straight into Tim's mouth. That makes Tim finally open his eyes again, those beautiful icy waters John always feels like he's drowning in, and he snaps. Their mouths collide as Tim gets it, meets John in the middle, swapping sticky fluid between them til it's all they can taste.

Eventually they pull apart, eyes glassy and limbs shaking. Tim lifts a gentle hand to brush John's hair back from his face. His voice is quiet, soft, when he says, "I love you too."

John opens his mouth to reply, but he's cut off with a yelp when Tim takes him by the hips, flips them over till he's straddling John's hips, dick barely softening. "My turn."


Chapter Text

Jim jumps as the balcony door slides open behind him, nearly dropping his lit cigarette onto the street below. It's just Mick. Jim breathes a sigh of relief, relief that he's a) not about to be murdered, and b) not responsible for setting someone's hair on fire. He offers him a tired smile before looking back out towards the horizon. Mick's hands land on either side of Jim's arm where it rests on the balcony railing, and he can feel the warmth of Mick's bare skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt where Mick leans into him. Soft kisses are pressed on the nape of his neck, the area left cold as Mick lifts his lips and a breeze curls around them.  His body doesn't respond to Mick's touch the way it usually would, and Jim's not surprised. Jim's not sure what's wrong. His brain doesn't seem to be firing properly these days and it's starting to wear him down, making his anxiety spike and his fingers twitch. His chest feels heavy, his gut tense. He's constantly distant and distracted, and other people are starting to notice. He doesn’t even realise Mick’s body heat is gone and that he’s trying to get Jim’s attention until his elbow is shaking and his cigarette is tumbling down seven storeys. He rounds on Mick, scowling.

“What?” Jim hears the snap in his voice, feels the tension in his brow, and instantly feels guilty. Mick just looks shocked. None of this is Mick’s fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. Assigning blame would require knowing what’s wrong, and that’s information Jim just doesn’t have. Or maybe he does, and he’s just not willing to admit it. Either way he drops his head, looks at the cement floor as he rubs his eyes. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to snap. I’m just…” he just tails off. Micks face creases in concern. It breaks Jim’s heart.

Mick reaches out with both hands, takes Jim’s in his and guides them both across the balcony until they reach the soft sunloungers. The sun’s nearly gone, making way for a soft summer twilight, but Mick drops down into one anyway. He tries to pull Jim with him, but he wont budge. Stays on his feet and just scowls down at the floor. Jim doesn't know why.


“Baby, are you ok?” Mick’s voice is soft. It startles Jim, he hadn't realised he'd drifted again. Jim doesn’t feel like he deserves Mick's concern. No idea why. He also has no idea how to answer that question, so he just nods. Mick’s not convinced, squeezes Jim’s hand. “Jim,” he says, voice firm, “Talk to me.”

Jim sighs, tilts his head up to the sky as if it’s going to give him the answers he’s looking for. The flossy clouds don’t give him any sort of insight, so all that’s left is to drop his gaze back down. The look on Mick’s face makes his heart throb, so concerned and full of emotions that Jim likes to imagine are love, and it hits him just how lucky he is. It’s not quite a smile, but one side of his mouth quirks up a little. That makes Mick smile, and Jim finally relents and lets Mick pull him down into his lap. The lounger doesn’t have arms so there’s plenty of room for Jim’s long legs, and Mick’s hands are reassuringly firm where they cup Jim’s ass to pull him firmly against Mick’s chest. He wraps his arms, so strong and firm and Jim loves them so much, around Jim and for the first time in a week Jim’s mind feels quieter. Not quiet by any means, but it’s still a relief. Jim leans his head on Mick’s shoulder, buries his face in his neck and closes his eyes.

His voice is muffled, makes Mick shiver a little when he says, "I don't wanna talk," against his skin. Mick nods. He understands. Always understands. They've known each other for so long, been through so much together that Mick knows Jim better than he knows himself. He's safe with Mick, Jim knows this like he knows his own name, but he knows he still has his defenses up. He just doesn't know why. 


The kisses start on the socket of his shoulder. Barely there and slow, before they start to travel  up the curve where Jim’s shoulder meets his neck where they get a little heavier and make him shiver a little. By the time Mick’s biting at that spot under his ear, Jim’s fingers are digging hard into Mick’s side. Every kiss pushes Jim further and further into that soft place where he doesn’t worry about anything or care about anything, and he doesn’t put up any kind of fight when Mick works him out of his clothes. Barely feels the chill in the rapidly cooling air, just clings harder to Mick, shares his warmth.

He doesn’t really think too hard about the fact Mick had the travel-sized bottle of lube in his pocket already, he just desperately wants Mick to keep doing what he’s doing, needs the distraction from whatever the fuck is going on in his head. If there’s one thing Mick’s good at it, it’s pulling Jim from his moods. Has so many tricks up his sleeve to adjust to whatever Jim needs at that point; a gentle hand, a firm hand, violence or tenderness. 


Tenderness is what he gets now. Mick shrugs, urging Jim to lift his head so he can take it in both his hands and kiss him breathless. Their lips are firm together when Mick whispers, "Stay with me, baby," and Jim knows that Mick knows. Doesn't know what's wrong but knows how deep the 'wrong' is running under Jim's skin and isn't going to try to gouge it out but instead just hold Jim while he does it himself.

Everything is slow and gentle. Mick fingers him at a slow pace that makes Jim want to cry, opening him up so tenderly that Jim barely feels anything except immense contentment. One, two, three fingers and Jim’s moaning hot in Mick’s ear, not caring a fuck about the fact they’re outdoors, there’s balconies on either side of them and a walkway barely a few yards away. They're both sweating, bodies hot and flushed, making the air around them balmy and filling it with soft cries as they shift and sigh and it's so good, it's exactly what Jim needs. Mick always knows what Jim needs.


Eventually, Mick sinks into Jim's body, filling him up and to Jim it feels like he's pushing out all the doubt, all the worry, everything that's been bothering him. And so so much has been bothering him, he's desperate for respite, just five minutes where he doesn't feel like he's drowning. As Jim leans back Mick drops his head to press kisses and soft bites across Jim's chest. Jim looks over his head, out at where the sky meets the earth, and lets his mind go blank. Or he tries to, anyway. He ponders how they got to this point, how lucky he is to have Mick in his life, how happy and content Mick makes him and how he doesn't want anyone else -

Fuck. There it is again . That stabbing feeling of guilt in his chest that makes him gasp. No, it can't be. He wont let it be. That cannot be what's been plaguing Jim, can't be who's been plaguing him. No, it's not, it has to he something else. Jim shakes his head, trying to dislodge it, stares out at nothing again and tries to focus on the here and now. It's not until he hears his name, feels Mick press against the base of his spine that he realises he'd completely stopped moving. As he jerks a little, coming back to the moment, Mick cups his face again, pulling him down to rest their foreheads together.

"I'm here," Mick whispers. Jim's heart breaks.

He's here. Mick's here and... whoever else isn't, and Jim knows he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve Mick’s kindness or attention. He doesn’t really know why, but he knows he doesn’t and it makes his stomach twist even as he keeps rolling his hips. He's trying his hardest to stay focused on the moment but his mind still keeps trying to pull him away to thoughts of other places. Other people. Mick’s big hands are firm on his waist, so strong and secure like he's trying to anchor Jim, keep him there. Jim can feel the desperation in Mick's kisses, like he can taste Jim going away, and he can’t hold it back any longer. He lets the tears fall, knowing Mick is used to Jim crying during sex and so wont question it. 


Not that Jim isn't clearly fucked up. Mick will have questions, but Jim knows he'll save them til he knows Jim's ready to answer them, even if he doesn't know the answers himself.


He will, though. He'll work it out. Figure out whatever (or whoever?) it is that's fucking him up. He doesn't need to right now. Right now he's got everything he needs right here.

Chapter Text

John stands in the living room doorway, looking at Jim sitting on his couch, large frame slumped low in the seat to the point he’s nearly lying down, chin to chest. It makes him smile. It’s just so...nice. Comfortable. Dare he say it, domestic. John has no idea what he’s playing, the screaming and banging noises coming from his fancy surround-sound system sounding more like a death metal album than video game music. Tetris was probably the last game John played, on a plane once when someone forced him to try their Game Boy. He hated it, doesn’t recall touching anything similar since. But Jim loves his video games, therefore John loves them.

He doesn’t, however, love the fact that it’s not a thing he can share with Jim. Oh sure there are plenty of two-player games out there, but Jim never asks because he’s heard the Tetris story more than once and wouldn’t exactly want to pressure John into doing something just for his enjoyment. But John wants to be involved in whatever Jim’s doing, one way or another. Still staring he bites his cheek, thinking. John’s pretty sure he’s come up with a way for him to be involved in Jim’s game. He’s just not entirely sure how to broach it.

“Your ass made of glass or something?” John jumps as Jim’s voice rumbles over the din of the TV. Jim doesn’t turn his head, stays focused on the screen in front of him, and John blushes at the realisation he’s been caught staring. “Come sit down, baby, you’re making me uncomfortable staring at me like that.”

Well. Who is John to disobey a direct command? He saunters across the room, stopping when he’s right beside Jim’s legs.

“Press pause,” John says.

Jim doesn’t look at him. “Hmm, what?” he mumbles, distracted.

“I said. Press. Pause,” John repeats slowly and firmly.

Jim huffs like a moody teenager, thumbing the button firmly before he looks up at John. Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue as he finally fucking realises: John’s naked. 100% as bare as the day he was born. John watches with mild amusement as Jim’s adam’s apple bobs like he's forgotten how to swallow. Then Jim notices what John’s got in his hand, and he looks like he’s choking on his tongue. “Wha -?”

John giggles, takes advantage of Jim’s dumbfounded state to shift his hands away from his lap so he can climb into it, dropping the bottle of lube he's holding onto the cushion beside them. The denim of Jim's jeans scratches at John's inner thighs, making him shiver. Jim’s still got the controller in one hand, looks completely at a loss as to what to do with the other, so John just presses it down onto the couch cushion and makes a soothing sound. Poor Jim, he's so easily flustered. John thinks it’s adorable, the way Jim blushes and his eyes go glassy at just the sight of John sometimes. Jim puts up no description of a fight as John unfastens his belt, his fly, shuffles his clothes around just enough to work his rapidly-stiffening dick out of his jeans.

"Don't worry," John breathes as he slicks his hands and works them up and down Jim's dick a few times. "You don't have to do any of the work. Actually, you don't need to do anything." Jim doesn't look like he gives a fuck what he has to do, Jim's gone fucking cross eyed. Pushing up on his knees, John reaches behind him, can't resist giving a couple of slow strokes as he angles Jim up so he can start sinking down. Getting prepped beforehand was sensible, John muses. Saved a lot of time. Jims hands have finally woken up and drifted to John's hips, and he stops moving, plucking them off as Jim mumbles in a questioning tone.

Shaking his head, John tries to explain. "We're not having sex, just so you know." Jim lifts his head from where it rolled back against the couch, makes a confused sound. "Yeah I know, it sounds crazy but...I just wanted to join in, y'know? And I don't play games, so…" he trails off, sinking down a little further, relishing the guttural groan Jim makes. He's letting out these tiny little noises, whispering 'Fuck-' under his breath, and for a second John almost changes his mind and rides Jim into the bones of the couch right there and then, but no. John wants to at least try this.

"B-but babe, this game's - shit, fuck," he gasps, "It's hard, I gotta - gotta concentrate. What if I go soft?"

John's reply comes out soft, already sounding fucked-out. "Concentrate on your game, that's the whole point. I'll do the rest."

Eventually he's seated, can't hold back the hiss of satisfaction at finally being full, shifting a little to get his legs comfortable. Jim makes a strangled noise, hands twitching by his side. God, this is gonna be harder than John thought. Jim feels too good, pressed deep and hard inside him. When John leans forward to get comfortable Jim jerks a little, raking his dick across that bundle of nerves, and John has to bite his lip to stop the cry that nearly comes out. Nuzzling his face into Jim's neck he relaxes, lifting Jim's t-shirt and tucking it behind his own hard dick so they're skin on skin. The warmth of his skin, the swell when he breathes, lulls John into a haze of contentment.

Jim's not entirely certain what he's supposed to do. His entire being is aching with the urge to thrust up, but having John so hard and heavy and comfortable in his lap, on his dick, against his chest, genuinely feels so nice and chilled that he's starting to calm down and come round to the idea. Once John's settled Jim strokes his back, his ass, his thighs a few times before picking the controller back up with shaking hands.

It's hard, no pun intended. He's trying to concentrate but John keeps making these soft noises against his neck, breath feather light and the right kind of tickly, the kind that makes his dick throb. When that happens, John moans, shifts a little, and Jim can feel precome starting to leak into the hair of his belly. The heat of John's body soaks into him, pools in his groin where it coils like a spring. A noise from the screen grabs his attention. Dammit, that was close. He fucking told John, told him this wasn't gonna work.

He's got to try though. John wants this, and Jim can't lie, it's comforting in a strange way. It makes him feel close to John, wanted. The longer they sit like that, John hot and wet around him, gentle hands stroking his sides, the easier he finds it to concentrate. They fall into a rhythm, Jim's head leaned against the side of John's face where he can feel him smile and occasionally press a kiss to Jim's cheek. Every so often John will twitch, clench his muscles a little (Jim doesn't know if it's intentional or not. He also doesn't care.) and it's enough to perk his dick back up when he feels himself start to soften.

They've been cuddled up for what feels like hours, Jim's gotten caught up in his game, coming up to a big boss fight. Either John's psychic or he feels the quickening of Jim's heartbeat, because that's the exact point he decides it's time to be a little shit. John shifts, moving himself up a bit, and Jim's mouth drops open as he catches his breath. Suddenly he's aware of everything all over again, can feel John's cock, softened over time, starting to fill again. The dried precome pulls at the hair of his stomach, becoming slick again when John's dick starts drooling. John's hands tighten where they sit against Jim's ribs, tight enough that Jim knows he'll bruise. He can't help the way his hips cant up, or the way he does it again when John whines. Fuck, he nearly died. He needs to calm down.

Then John bites down, rakes his teeth across the tender skin of Jim's neck, and Jim drops the fucking controller. Helplessly he watches his character succumb to a violent death, and he can't help but feel he's being devoured himself because he gives in, let's his lizard brain take over. In a flash Jim's hands are seizing John's hips and flipping him onto his back on the couch. Time to pay John back for his clever little scheme.

Game over.


Chapter Text

Sighing heavily, John hauls his suitcase up the steps of the cabin. It's been a long journey at the end of a very long week and he just wants a bath, shitty movies, and time to mess around on his guitar. The cabin's been in his family for years upon years, always there to house family gatherings, weddings and anniversaries, and, right now, a recently dumped guy who needed to get out of the city for five minutes. Needed to not bump into his ex on every second street corner. If you're gonna be miserable, better to be miserable on a lakeside cabin with a private dock, surrounded by trees and satisfyingly cut off from the evils of the Real World.

He dumps his stuff and goes about chilling out: the house is fully stocked for his arrival, and he silently thanks his aunt as he reaches the fridge, starving after a bus journey that could best be described as "better than actual Hell, though not by much." John doesn't notice the note til he's shutting the fridge door, shoving a slice of vegan quiche in his mouth as he uses both hands to take it down to read.

It's just the usual; welcome, have fun, stay safe, remember the ensuite bathroom taps need a few light slams before they work, that sort of thing, all written in his aunts swooping handwriting. He's about to drop it in the bin before he sees the bottom. 




Okay, that's strange. Why would she -

The kettle whistles, rattles on the stove, and John drops the letter to stop the awful noise. It lies there on the floor, unheeded after that.


It's the evening of John's dreams: long bath, comfy pyjamas, greasy pizza from a hipster vegan joint, and plenty of guitar time. John's on his third shitty movie and fifth cup of tea when the change in light catches his eye, and he peers out the window. Man, he'd forgotten how beautiful the view was here. The lake is still, calm, inviting. Might be nice to get some fresh air...

It’s getting late but the air is still sweet and balmy, so John just zips his hoodie up over his pyjamas and pads barefooted down to the dock, huge scalding mug of tea cupped in his hands. Dropping down to sit cross legged on the old wooden slats, he takes careful sips as he watches water boatmen drift and damselflies whirr above the water’s surface, the lake like a mirror reflecting the purple and peach of the twilight sky above. When he takes a deep breath in, the air smells fresh, clean, like everything he needs. A fat frog snatches a firefly from the swarm meandering about, and John watches its belly glow for an amused minute.

John stares down into the lake. It doesn’t seem particularly deep, isn't from what he remembers. It’s completely still with the exception of the ripples created by the movement of flora and fauna. He thinks back to the warning, hastily scribbled like someone was in a hurry. It’s weird, he doesn’t recall being told to stay away from the water when he was a kid. Quite the contrary, John has vivid memories of swimming with his siblings and cousins, dunking each other and hiding under the dock when it was time to come in so they might be allowed to stay out until dark, even though the water had long gotten too cold to enjoy. It was just one of those things about your youth, the fun you had; you just always wanted it to last longer.

They'd played in the lake less after there was a spate of deaths. All accidents; drowning, one of those things that happens. He lost a few of his older cousins that way, one of two girlfriends drowning with them. Is that why his aunt said not to go near it?

A memory hits him so suddenly he nearly chokes on his tea. His great grandmother, in her rocking chair outside the cabins back door, grabbing John to stop him running down to the dock after a cousin. She'd grabbed him hard, pulled him close and stared deep into his eyes.

"Only play in the lake with the ones your age," she rasped in her smokers voice. "The lake's only safe when there's lots of ye. Just one or two is not enough. Never enough. Especially grown ups." She'd pulled him even closer then, and John could smell the cigarettes on her breath, vowed in that moment never to smoke. "Promise me boy, that you wont go near the lake alone?" She shook him, repeated until he agreed and ran back into the house, crying into his mother's skirt. She'd told him his grandmother was just getting odd in her old age, but it's true that there's safety in numbers so it couldn't hurt to stick to.

He chews his tongue. John doesn’t go in for old wives tales, isn’t much of a believer in the supernatural or boogeymen. He’s a pragmatist, practical. 

To a degree, anyway. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t just plunge his feet into the lake, instead dips them slowly, toes first, one foot at a time. The chill sends a shiver through his entire body, right to his hair follicles, but it only lasts a split second; the water feels surprisingly warm after a minute or so. Perfectly pleasant in fact. He snorts a laugh at the foolishness of people that get taken in by folktales and fables as he leans back onto one hand, sips his tea and idly swings his legs through the water while he stares at the stars through the streams of glowing bugs. This was a good choice. John feels good. Happy.

That is, until something brushes his foot.

With an inhuman screech John jumps like a scalded cat, dropping his mug and tipping most of his tea down himself as he turns, trying to scramble to his feet and away from the edge of the dock. Logically he knows it was probably a fish, an underwater plant, some kind of enormous bug, but as a devotee of horror movies, all John can think is JAWS JAWS OH FUCK IT’S A SHARK HELP. He’s nearly there, stumbling a little as he pulls himself upright, making to dash back to the house. His foot catches a patch of spilled tea though, and his ankle rolls below him, toppling him, and he slams his shin against the edge of the dock before plunging headfirst into the depths. 


John gasps as he hits the suddenly frigid water, taking in a mouthful of water as he sinks. It’s pitch black, he can’t see for the swarms of rubbery leaves that feel like they’re coiling around his limbs, trapping him. He thrashes, kicking as hard as he can, lungs burning. Even with the plants out of his face everything’s murky and dim, completely different from what was clear and glassy just minutes earlier. Another flail and his legs are free, and he wastes no time kicking himself to the surface. As he breaks through the gulps down air, chest heaving. It’s so fucking cold, his arms and legs are struggling to cooperate. Terror grips his heart, slamming it against his ribs as he pushes again, desperately tries to grab the planks of the dock to pull himself up. The first few tries fail, and John knows he’s running out of energy. With the absolute hugest effort he can muster, he reaches, grabs, finally catches the edge. 

There’s something against his hand, but he doesn’t feel it, too busy being awash with relief that he’s nearly free. John’s learned his lesson, he’s never going to discount the stories old ladies tell ever again, never -

The white ceramic of his mug rolls from where his fingers hit it, pushing it towards the front of the dock. It wobbles, plummets, catching John square between the eyes. Down, down he goes again, far further than would seem possible in such a small body of water, as everything fades to grey, then black.



Pond water tastes disgusting to swallow, but it’s 100% worse coming back up. Hauling his head up from the muddy dent it’s put in the shore, he hacks and splutters, tears springing to his eyes as the water sears his sinuses. It’s like puking up the contents of a garbage disposal, John thinks, garbage steeped in raw sewage. He can’t get a proper breath, everything feels heavy. Eventually he chokes everything out, spitting and blinking away the tears and wiping his nose with the back of his wrist. Fuck . John isn’t prone to swear but seriously, what the fuck? This is not how this weekend was meant to start. If he’d wanted to die horribly, he’d have gone to Camp Crystal Lake. Fuck this , he thinks, bitterly, digs his fingers into the soft muck to push himself up. He just wants a shower, clean clothes, and bed. In fact, he’ll even forgo the clothes, whatever gets him in bed and asleep sooner. When he pushes, his hands sink into the mud. He tries again. The strain is too much, and he flops down again, mud splashing his face. Gritting his teeth, John pushes as hard as he can, one last try.

Nothing. He can’t move. Crying out in frustration, John’s eyes dart around, looking for something he might be able to grab to pull himself up the slippery bank.

That’s when he sees it. Out the corner of his eye when he looks to his left: a leg. Or at least, it looks like a leg. It’s huge , all rippling muscles corded with veins like wrapped vines. He can’t see a body but as his head clears he can feel the weight on his left leg, explaining why he couldn’t stand or crawl. It seems vaguely humanoid from what he can see, but definitely not human. And it’s definitely not the same colour as any human John’s ever seen. Not the alive kind, anyway. It’s mostly grey, mottled with greeny yellowish blue-toned patches like one huge bruise, and John has to blink a few times, not entirely certain he can believe what he’s seeing. Maybe he died. Yeah, maybe he drowned that first time and his near-escape and this is just all part of some hellish trip into the afterlife.


Or maybe there’s just an enormous fucking creature on his back and John’s about to die.


He’s busy briefly contemplating which he would rather be the truth when he notices it: something that feels almost like a hand, if hands were huge and slightly slimy, with what feels like webs between the fingers. It presses between his shoulders, and John panics for a second that he’s about to be suffocated in the mud, but it smoothes down the length of his spine instead, moving towards his right hip and briefly thumbing the dimples in his back. Fear has John completely paralyzed, survival instincts kicking in and telling him not to move a fucking muscle. He makes no move to stop the creatures slow movements as it’s hand moves further and further down, over the swell of his ass, squeezing it through the soaked fabric of his ruined pants. He bites his lip, hard, trying desperately not to cry. Surely this can’t be real? It can’t be, it just can’t be. Gillman doesn’t actually exist! As soon as the thought ends, there’s a drip. Right on the bare nape of his neck. He shudders. It felt thicker than water, slick and slow where it rolls down below the collar of his t-shirt. His saliva is thick in his mouth when he gulps as a warm breath tickles him, chilling his damp skin until he shivers, waiting for teeth like knives to slice into his flesh. 

The teeth dug into his bottom lip stop most of the shriek from coming out, but he still trills high in his throat as he screams through his teeth when his pants are torn away from his body, effortlessly like they were made of wet tissue paper. 

“I mean you no harm,” a deep voice intones, sounding simultaneously right behind him and far far below the surface of the water. It’s rich, oddly warm, like a creek bubbling over worn-smooth rocks. “Do not struggle,” it continues, “This must happen. It is necessary.”

All John can do is sob "Why?", but the creature just repeats itself. John doesn’t have time to unpack that as he's bodily picked up and flipped as if he weighs nothing, dumped down again on his back with a wet splat. When he finally has the guts to open his eyes, they don’t melt out of his head in sheer horror like he half expected. The creature has a face. It’s...human ish? Still absolute nightmare fuel, but it’s expressions seems to almost border on reassuring. Where it’s hands (Hands? Flippers? John doesn’t have the words to define them right now,) hold his hips, the pressure is light and not painful like one would assume. Quite the opposite, it traces John’s hipbone with it’s thumb, the web connected to it sliding across his skin. It feels like wet silk, makes John shudder. He’s appalled when he realising he’s not shaking from fear anymore, or the cold. No it’s something far more primal, not attraction or lust but a need to consummate , to rut animalistically until he falls apart. The feeling burns through him, makes his skin flush hot, and he practically combusts when he feels that hand slick down between his legs.

"I find your flesh appealing," it rumbles, sonorous and musical to John's ears. "I am glad you gave yourself to the lake. Previous offerings...have not been as pleasing."

That makes John's cock twitch even as a wave of nausea rolls through him at the word offering. What does it mean, ' gave himself to the lake'? He fucking fell, he didn't give anything. 

"As I said, you gave yourself to the lake. Now you must give everything to the lake," the thing rumbles again.

Shit. Did John say anything out-loud? Or is the thing sitting between his thighs telepathic or- 

John cuts himself off. It doesn't matter. Not when there's a huge finger pressing against his rim. He hears "This will not hurt ", thinks yeah right. He waits for the sting, the burn, the ache, but nothing comes but that deep sense of fullness and satisfaction. It makes him gasp out loud. There's no attempt to massage his prostate or give any real kind of stimulation; it feels methodical, clinical. Just what's necessary. 

"Yesss," comes the warbling voice again. "Your body is perrrrrrfect. Your skin shines like marble in the moonlight. Mossst...pleassssing." John never thought he'd ever hear a cryptid slur its speech in what sounds like arousal, but then until a few minutes ago, he didn't believe in the existence of such things. He's strangely unbothered by this, concerned only with the second finger now working him open. It's so wet . John can hear squelching, truly disgusting sounds that make him feel wanton and slutty rather than terrified for his life. It must be whatever the creatures body is covered in that it's using. John's not about to start asking questions.

What little bravery he's built up withers swiftly as the creature rises up on its knees, announcing that John is ready, and he sees its cock for the first time. Oh no. Oh no. He wants to run, crawl, swim, do anything to get away from it. Easily a foot long it resembles a thick horn with wide but shallow suckers lining the bottom. John's taken some dicks in his time but this one may literally ruin him for all others. Again he's reassured that it wont hurt, small comfort but John knows he doesn't have a choice. This is happening. It is necessary. 

The mug. It hit him, dazed him enough that he sank again, blacked out before all this happened. Is that what the creature means by giving himself to the lake? Rather than let the plantlife take him? And then...he was waking up on the shore. Is this something to do with that? The price he's charged for surviving?


His train of thought is derailed sharply. The sensation of the dick sliding into him makes John choke on a moan that makes his lungs burn all over again. He feels the suckers stick to his insides, anchoring it inside, and he's never felt so full and stretched in his life. And it doesn't hurt. Quite the contrary, where their skin meets it feels like warming lube, tingly, and when it starts to thrust he's already oversensitive like he's already been fucked through multiple orgasms. He's being pulled up, held in those terrible arms as the creature thrusts slowly, purposefully. John clings to its back, digs his nails in and feels it’s muscles shift like tectonic plates. His mouth hangs open but nothing's coming out except wheezy cries.

" will be overrrr soon," it murmurs, it's voice dragging out a whoreish cry from John. "I find you very...enjoyable. You are...well-crafted, for a human."

Whether that's a compliment or not, John doesn't know. Doesn't fucking care because he's so fucking full of dick and all his blood has abandoned his brain to fill his own cock, and it's so hard it hurts. He can feel it throb, desperate for some kind of contact or friction, but he daren't try to touch himself; that might not be part of the experience. So he just concentrates on the sensations of huge hands holding him firmly, claws or nails digging into him, as he's pounded into again and again. He feels so impossibly tiny in this massive creatures grip, fragile but protected. One arm wraps around the small of his back, the other cupping his whole ass to lift him up and down, dropping him on the creatures length. John just leans back, lets his head tip back to expose his throat. Submissive. His head feels giddy and light, his hole is fluttering spasmodically, and when he's pulled tighter against that wall of a chest and his dick grinds across the hard flat plains of the creatures torso, he comes completely undone.

Oh god , it feels like his heads about to explode, the pressure of his orgasm making his ears pop and jaw ache as he grits his teeth. He spills between them both, barely cognizant of the creature running one huge digit along the length of John's dick, collecting his come and licking its finger clean. If John was more conscious he'd probably find that hot, but as it is he's blissfully unaware of anything much at the moment. There's one last pointed thrust and he's being pumped full of what feels like lava. It burns, hot and sweet, so much he can practically taste it. It keeps pulsing, pushing more and more into him until he can feel it leaking out, smearing on their legs. John can't do anything about it, he's still boneless, draped backwards over one thick arm. He's never been fucked like this in his life. Or his afterlife, if his suspicions are true.

Eventually he's gently laid down again, and the mud feels warm and soft under him. Like a bed, comfortable and safe. The creature is talking, John's not entirely certain what about, but he catches that he's now welcome in the lake, that no harm will come to him if he so chooses to visit again. The creature would very much like it if John came back. It's the last thing he hears before his eyes crash shut.



The gauzy curtains don't do much to prevent the sunlight from slicing through to John's eyes, jerking him awake with a pained groan. With great effort he forces his eyes open, trying to remember where he is, surroundings unfamiliar but tasting like a memory. Suddenly he's sitting bolt upright, heart racing.

What the fuck happened last night? can't have. It all comes flooding back: the dock, falling, the chill of the water, and then-

No. No, there's no way. John stresses to himself that he dreamt it. Maybe there was something funny in his tea that made him hallucinate. Maybe it was out of date and fermented. Or maybe he went temporarily insane. Either way, what he's remembering couldn't possibly have happened.

Except...he's not in the pyjamas he'd put on last night. And he has a distinct memory of specifically putting on his favourite pyjama pants. And if that... incident actually happened, they'd be…

His gaze lands on the clothes hamper by the door. There they are, his Sesame Street pants. Torn to shreds. He just blinks, stares for a few minutes. Then he gets up, goes downstairs and makes a cup of tea. Barefooted he pads out to the dock, feeling the morning dew on the grass between his toes. When he reaches the end of the dock he sits down cross-legged and looks out at the madonna blue sky. The same bugs flit and float about him. There's nothing out of the ordinary. 

Except, for a second, John thinks he saw a hand. And it looked like it waved to him. Slowly, carefully, he dips his feet into the water, one at a time. He smiles.


The water is warm.


Chapter Text

Jim leans back against the soft cushions of the couch, shifts around until he's comfy, his butt and his back. Patting his jeans he finds his cigarettes, knocks the bottom to pop one out and seals his lips around it to drag it from the pack, pausing to inhale the tangy smell of nicotine and something that reminds Corey of dried fruit. His movements are loose and languid, unhurried, matching the whole air of boredom he's giving off. Corey shakes as he waits, pent up and anxious, watches Jim light the cigarette and take a deep draw, letting it out as he tucks one arm behind his head. He nods at Corey, gestures vaguely with a wave of his hand towards his lower half. Corey shakes harder.

He never fucks Jim. That isn't how their story goes. Jim tells Corey what to do and Corey does it,because he's under Jim's thumb, his body, his fucking soul. He hasn't told him to do this. Jim suggested this. Sat beside him on the couch and said to Corey "Hey, I think you should fuck me. What do you think?" Just like that. Like he was saying they should get Thai food sometime. Corey had just stared. Couldn't think. Mouth bone dry, he tried to stammer out a response, but nothing came. Eventually he gave up, because he knew Jim wasn't really asking. Wasn't telling him to do it but wasn't actually giving him the option to say 'no', because that would be too much like giving Corey some semblance of control and they both know that's not going to happen. 

There's a catch. Corey doesn't know what it is, but he knows it's there, waiting to grab him by the ankle and flip him upside down so Jim can take over and take his breath away. But Corey can't say no. Jim hasn't told him to do anything but he doesn't have to. Corey knows.

Ignoring the dread sitting in his stomach like sour milk Corey reaches out to undo Jim's belt, tugging down the zipper, his jeans, his underwear, just enough to let his cock spring ou and bare his ass. A sigh of relief escapes when his hands don't shake. Jim says nothing as his dick rolls up to lie on his bare stomach, just takes another lazy draw of his cigarette and taps the ash off onto the floor. Corey's not sure if he wants Jim to stay silent or not. It's intimidating, but if he's quiet he's not criticising, and Corey's nervous enough as it is without that. The shakes are a little more marked when Corey reaches between Jim's legs, and Jim lets them fall open, welcoming and wanton. He's greeted by slick wetness; Jim already got himself ready. Of course he did. Couldn't possibly trust Corey with the task of opening him up. Or maybe couldn't let go of that much control. Either way, it hits Corey right in the ego. He pushes it away, tries not to make it obvious that it affected him as he gets into position between those outstretched legs.

"Wait, wait. Something's missing." Jim's pushing him up, leaning off the side of the couch, searching his bag for something while Corey sits back on his heels and just looks on, perplexed. Surely not a condom? They've been fluid-bonded for a long time now, it's not like either of them are getting any elsewhere right now. Corey wouldn't dare.

Oh no. When Jim finally finds what he's after Corey feels the first wave of fear hit him, and his dick wilts as he exhales shakily. He doesn't otherwise react, just puts his hands on his thighs and lets Jim lean up and pump out a little extra lube, running it around the inner rim of the black silicone cock ring with one long finger before sliding it down over Corey's dick. When it's in place he looks up, smiles.

"Sorry babe. I just don't trust you not to blow your load after five seconds," he lies back down, gets comfy again. "Nothing personal."

Oh, how something dies a little in Corey when Jim says that. Because it's true, it isn't personal. Jim just wants to get off. Corey could be anyone and he'd do the same because he wants to guarantee he gets what he wants. He doesn’t have time to let the shame get to him, because Jim’s got a hold of his dick now and he’s tugging it back to full hardness with one lubey hand, trapping the ring in place and pulling Corey towards him. Corey has to shuffle forward on his knees to avoid falling over, and he just kneels there while Jim gets himself positioned, figuring if he tried he’d only get it wrong and be berated for that too, knowing he’ll probably get berated for not trying because he can’t fucking win with Jim. Can’t win because Jim’s the only one actually playing, Corey’s just the pawn Jim uses to play. Hooking his legs over Corey’s thighs and around his waist, Jim pulls until Corey’s brushing his hole then sinking in, and Corey can see him try to hide the wave of relief that passes over his face but even Jim’s not that good an actor, can’t stop the way he grunts quietly when Corey holds his hips and starts to thrust. It’s something. One tally mark on Corey’s scoreboard.

"Is it in yet?", Jim says, expression lost in a cloud of smoke.

Fuck. That stings. Corey just grits his teeth, wont show how much that hurt, doesn't say anything as he shifts on his knees and tries to thrust a little harder. He knows Jim’s just trying to rile him, wants him to react because that’s when Jim will get to punish him and Corey will get his head filled with clouds that make him forget what the point of the whole exercise was. To be honest, that’s probably what Jim wants. 

“Dude, where the fuck are you?” Jim’s pushing up, slapping Corey lightly a few times. “Wake up, ‘m not getting any younger here. No, don’t stop, for fuck’s sake,” he scolds Corey as he leans to the side again, off the couch to get another cigarette. Corey watched the flame from the Zippo lighter flare, casting shadows on Jim’s face that highlight his bone structure in all the wrong ways. Makes him look devilish and mean, things that Corey knows in his heart that Jim isn’t. His Jim is sweet and kind and looks after him in ways Corey couldn’t even begin to conceptualize. 

Except at times like this. Then Jim is the devil himself, hell-bent on devouring Corey one kiss at a time.

Corey jerks when Jim’s slap brings him back to the moment, makes his dick throb and his hands clench Jim's narrow hips. His thumbs dig into the little dents in the bones. Jim hisses, hole fluttering a little in that way Corey knows he can’t fake, but Corey can’t let himself count it as a win this time. Not when Jim’s tucking his hands behind his head again, cigarette dangling sluttily from his mouth. Corey has to look away, can’t face the scornful boredom in those green eyes.

“Is this why you always bottom?” Corey looks up at him against his better judgement, frowns in question. “I can barely feel your cock, man," He must notice they way Corey's face blanches and falls because he shrugs. "Just saying, it makes sense. Not much point in sticking it in someone if they can’t feel it,” He takes another long drag on his cigarette. “Or do you just not know how to use it?”

Tears start to prickle behind Corey’s eyes. He leans forward, grabs Jim’s ribs and tries to adjust his angle, yanking him down the cushions and pushing his knees under Jim’s ass to tilt it up a bit. Trying to hit that sweet spot that'll make Jim hit the roof. It’s not enough, apparently. Jim grunts a little again, but it turns into a cruel sneer.

“Are you actually completely useless? Cos I might need to find someone else to get me off if that’s the case.”

The first tear falls. Corey watches Jim’s stomach twitch when it hits it, another following soon after. Biting his lip, he tries to ignore the ache in his heart and the way his nose is starting to run and starts to slam into Jim like his life depends on it, because in this moment maybe it does. Maybe if Corey doesn’t do better right now he’ll actually drop dead and then Jim will be right, Corey really will be completely and utterly useless. But Jim gasps, eyes flying open, and Corey hears his nails dig into the fabric of the couch. The walls around Corey's dick clamp down as he finally hits it, hits that spot and makes Jim arch up and pant out moans between gritted teeth. The tears still fall, Corey can't shut the floodgates that easily, and they patter over and over onto Jim's skin, puddling for a second before rolling to streak down his sides and soak into the cushions.

Jim surges up, seizes Corey’s face and drags him down as he drops onto his back again, gripping so hard Corey thinks he’s going to black out as Jim licks a flat stripe up his cheek, taking the tears with him.

Hnnng, fuck - guess you’re not completely useless after all,” he grits out, and that’s when Corey feels it; that dull pressure that starts in the pit of his gut that blossoms from the relief the brief respite from Jim's disdain brings. No. Oh no no no. It’s not fair. It’s not fair but it just feels too good and it's growing too fast, and Corey's not sure if the cock ring is going to help at this point. That one taste of praise from Jim would probably have sent him over the edge if he wasn't wearing it after all.

Telling Jim feels like admitting defeat. "Jim, ah - I'm sorry, I'm close, uh! I'm sorry-" he wheezes, gulping for air to fuel the muscles that are starting to ache. Jim growls, low and threatening.

"Don't you fucking dare," he bites out. "I come first." 

Corey whines again, sobs even as he keeps pumping his hips. "I can't, I can't, I'm sorry," he babbles, feeling like he's being stabbed by the daggers Jim's glaring at him with. 

Jim sighs, theatrically and dramatically, really making sure to twist that knife, then he’s pushing Corey up and away, telling him to move, get up, move dammit . Corey whines, confused, hips still stuttering in little abortive thrusts as his dick automatically keeps trying to chase it’s high, and he cries out in frustration when Jim pulls away and he slides out of that wet heat completely. Then wide, firm hands are on him, grabbing him, pulling him until he’s straddling Jim’s thighs, held tight to Jim’s chest and trying not to hiss as cold lube is dribbled right down the crack of his ass. Jim isn’t gentle. He’s quick and efficient, gathering the dripping liquid and rubbing it roughly around Corey’s hole, ignoring the trembling and the sobby little whines he makes as he fingers him open as fast as possible, then he’s pressing down on Corey’s hips. Corey resists for a moment, tries to take his time as he sinks down because Jim can only open him up so far because even three fingers doesn’t quite compare to the real thing and Corey desperately needs a second to adjust. Jim’s insistent though, lips against Corey’s ear when he whispers “C’mon, you can take it, baby,” and he gives up, lets his body weight push him down those last few inches. He gasps, too full for words. 

Jim is relentless though. His hands don’t move from Corey’s hips, pulling them, urging him to start rocking. It fucking hurts, hurts so fucking much and Corey’s not sure if he means physically or mentally or both but either way he’s helpless to stop the moan that spills out of him. He's too tired. Worn out inside and out, and everything burns because he can't get a breath because everything's going too fast. It's making his head spin and thighs ache and not really in the good way.

"Please Jim, please," he breathes. "Can I slow down for ju - just a minute? Please, baby?" Corey hears how pathetic he sounds, doesn't have the energy to care. He just desperately wants to get Jim off but he can't do that if he passes out and he just needs a goddamned minute to breathe for fuck's sake because he's raw and wide open and emotional and -

Apparently he said that out loud, because Jim's hands loosen their grip, still guide him but it's to slow his movements this time. Corey sighs, nearly bursting into tears all over again as his senses stop being assaulted and oxygen fills him again. Jim's hands are gone, and Corey opens his eyes to see Jim light yet another cigarette. He blows the smoke in Corey's face, making him cough. The action makes Corey clamp tight on Jim's dick. He groans, grinning and leaning back to stretch his arms across the top of the couch. He offers no further instruction, just lets Corey move at his own pace. 

Corey sighs, in pleasure this time. Now, it feels good. Really good. His orgasm had subsided a little when he'd started to panic, but now as he rolls his hips back and forth, feels the length inside him slide in and out as he moves, the veil of bliss starts to descend. He's so full, Jim's taking over every sense. Jim's all he can feel, all he can see, all he can hear…

Because Jim's speaking again. It takes Corey a second to process it, heart flattening against his ribs when he does.

"Is that really all you got?" he asks, taking another draw. "I think I must've wrecked your hole cos I can't feel shit."

The tears come again. Again Corey doesn't even try to stop them. Just cries as he bounces up and down on Jim's cock and Jim sits there, devoid of reaction. Again he sobs that he's sorry, he's so sorry, he'll try harder if Jim just gives him another chance, he'll be good, he promises, just please please please.

The hand Jim places on Corey's cheek is gentle, his movements slow as he pulls Corey's face towards his. Corey goes back to rocking his hips, too scared to stop. His eyes flutter shut as Jim starts to press barely-there kisses to his face. His cheekbones, his eyelids, over the teartracks on his cheeks, tongue flicking out to catch the tears ready to drip from Corey's jaw. He shudders, so pent up and ready to go, and he can feel Jim's breath on his face, lips ghosting against his. Corey shivvers with need, so so desperate for those lips to finally press against his, to prove that he deserves them.

He doesn't register the pain straight away. There's a sensation of pressure, an odd smell, before the agony slams into Corey full force, taking his breath away til he can't even cry out. It feels like Jim's trying to stub the cigarette out on Corey's fucking bones, and he thinks he wouldn't be surprised if he looked down and saw a hole all the way through to his hipbone. It's excruciating, like every nerve ending in his body is singed and crying out, screaming from that one tiny wound. It also shoots straight to his dick, a ribbon of precome streaking out to dribble down his dick. Jim feels it hit him too, grins and grabs it. He doesn't pull, doesn't stroke him. Just holds it.

And presses his finger into the wound.

Corey comes, choking on a cry as his eyes bulge. His vision blacks out as he soaks them both, come covering Jim's hands, their stomachs, their thighs. He can't breathe. His head is screaming in pain, the pressure of pain and pleasure making him woozy and limp. Jim's hands tighten on his ribs, holding him upright. Corey just clings to Jim's arms as he shakes, devastated over and over again by the aftershocks.

There's those clouds. Corey's dopey and dazy, head utterly obliterated of any conscious or rational thought. Opening his eyes feels like a mammoth tasks but he does it so he can see Jim's face when he smiles at him blearily, fucked-out and ruined. 

Jim smiles. It's not a nice smile. Even through his post-orgasmic high Corey can see the sardonic twist to Jim's lips, and he's disappointed in himself that he's surprised when Jim grips his hip again with one hand, the other tightening around Corey's barely-softened dick. Corey quakes. Jim was supposed to come first. The realisation hits Corey like a truck. Sure Jim made him come, probably intentionally, but that wont matter. Jim was supposed to come first

He doesn't put up a fight. Lets Jim squeeze his hip and his dick while Corey puts his hands on Jim's shoulders and holds on for dear life.

Chapter Text

"Fuck," Jim swears as he drops his phone, thankfully on the carpet this time. The absolute last thing he needs right now is a repeat heart attack of the Great Bathroom Floor Drop of Twenty Minutes ago, because he’s already more anxious than he should be and he doesn’t need a cracked screen to add to that. Stupid nerves making his stupid hands shake, and Jim hates himself for getting so worked up over a fucking phonecall. It’s ridiculous. It’s not like he’s never called Mick before.

It’s just that he’s never called him for this reason before. 

He drops down on the couch, tries to ignore the flop sweat he’s breaking out in, lets his leg bounce erratically so he’s got something to focus on that isn’t the enormous collossal fucking insane decision he’s about to make, because if he thinks about it too hard he’ll die of fucking embarassment. Like that’s going to happen either way, because if Mick says yes Jim will die, and if Mick says no he’ll die. Either way he’s fucked.

Finally, fucking finally he manages to navigate the menus of his phone and dial Mick without fucking it up, trying to ignore the way he feels the sweat from his hand make the phone slide against his equally sweaty face. He needs to get a grip, figuratively and literally. Scrubbing his face with his hand, he counts as the line on the other end rings. And rings. And rings. Panic rises in his chest when for a long moment all he can hear is the tapping of the rain on the windows and the buzz of the ringing in his ear, and he’s just about to hang up when it stops, a moment of muffled noises filling the line before Mick’s sleepy voice comes out. “Hello?”

Oh shit. It’s now or never. “Hey M-Mick,” Jim stammers, instantly hating himself, “It’s Jim.”

There’s a soft sigh, some shuffling noises from the other side. “Uh yeah man, I worked that out. What’s up?” Jim hears the sleepiness in Mick’s voice, feels bad for probably waking him up, but he’s too desperate to care enough to let him go back to sleep or whatever. He needs this too much.

“I need to talk to you,” he blurts. “Or rather I need you to talk to me,” The line goes quiet, and Jim’s waiting for Mick to ask what the fuck is happening, what does Jim mean, or to just hang up on him in anger which he’d be perfectly entitled to do, because Jim’s being fucking weird and interrupting Mick’s night. It’s just...they haven’t seen each other in weeks , and Jim’s going out of his mind with want and he needs him. Can’t have him because they’re miles away from each other in different hotels because they’re both doing press for different things and it’s infuriating, but it’s the nature of the beast. Usually Jim would just deal with it but he’s gotten himself so wound up and antsy that he’s pretty sure he’s about to cry because he just wants Mick's hands on him and possibly his dick in his ass.

Mick’s only quiet for a beat, which feels like a fucking eternity to Jim, but then he’s back with a voice like molten golden syrup, and Jim can already feel the tension draining from his bones. 

“Shhh, shhhh,” he soothes. “It’s ok baby, I’m here.” Jim lets himself sink back into the cushions, Mick’s voice washing over him. “I’ll look after you, don’t you worry. So what are you doing?”

Jim hums, wondering how truthful to be. Does he tell Mick he’s already started, which would be a lie but speed things up a bit, or does he make Mick start from the beginning. Give him all the control, let him guide Jim towards exactly what he should do in no uncertain circumstances. It’s hardly a competition.

“I’m waiting for your instructions,” he says, voice quiet, still steady but he knows that’ll change soon. Mick chuckles, and the sound is warm and delicious and it soaks into Jim’s muscles like hot fragrant bath water. 

“That’s a good boy, baby. I think you should just touch yourself. Imagine your hands are mine. I wish my hands were on you right now. Are you still soft?”

No, Jim’s not fucking soft. He’s already got an erection that could take out Tokyo, that’s why he’s making this goddamned call in the first place. That’s not what Mick wants to hear though. Jim knows that. “Hmmm kinda yeah. I’ve been waiting for you to...” he lets himself trail off, waiting for Mick to pick up the slack.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s good, that’s good. You know how much I love working you up, baby. Love feeling you get hard in my hand.”

Jim’s starting to sweat again. “Me too. I love it when you reach around me in bed when I’m asleep so I wake up with you jerking me off. Best way to start the day.” And it really is. Jim's lost count of the number of times he's woken up to Mick's fingers around his cock, or in his ass. Jim loves it when Mick uses his body like that, acts like he's taking him without permission for himself, when in reality he's doing it all for Jim.

“Same, it’s my favourite way to wake you up. If I was there right now that’s exactly what I’d do. First I’d just cup your dick, feel your skin under my fingers as it starts to heat up,” Jim tries to suppress the whine that rakes up his throat at that. He fails. “Only squeezing a little, cos I don’t wanna wake you up. Feel you twitch in my hand as you start to fill.”

Jim bites his lip, desperately trying to resist the urge to touch himself. It’s too early for that, he doesn’t wanna go off like a fucking bottle rocket this early in the game. He settles for grinding the heel of his hand down against his dick, sighing as it relieves some of the ache. Mick’s still going, still describing every stroke of his fingers, how he’d work Jim so slowly and so gently that he’d be seconds from coming before he even woke up. If he woke up. Maybe Mick would just keep stroking him at that same loose and languid pace until Jim came all over himself in his sleep, and Mick would let him think he’d just had a wet dream like some kind of horny teenager. Jim’s honestly not certain which he’d prefer to be honest. 

“Actually, maybe I’ll use my mouth,” Jim nearly swallows his tongue, jerked out of the fantasy he’d drifted into, annoyed because this isn’t the time to be getting into his own head. Not when the reality is so much better than the dream. He doesn’t interrupt, just hums in encouragement and starts to toy idly with the tie of his pyjama pants. His dick’s calmed down a little but he’s still too scared to do more than palm it a little through the fabric. “Yeah, yeah that’d be better. Peeling the covers back so I could just stare at you for a while. Start with my tongue, just giving you tiny little licks everywhere. Your dick, your balls, that crease at your thighs because I know how much you love that.”

And Jim does fucking love that. He loves all of this, loves everything Mick does to him because Mick knows Jim’s body better than he knows it himself. He’s rubbing himself through his clothes harder now, panting as he begs Mick, “Then what?” There’s soft noises coming from Mick’s end, and a thrill shoots through Jim as it occurs to him: is Mick touching himself? Are those noises Mick getting settled in bed again, sliding his hand beneath his waistband to start to tease himself with the filth he’s spilling into Jim’s head. There’s no way Jim could resist if he was in Mick’s position. Hell, he’s fucking struggling in his own position as it is. “Baby, please,” he whimpers quietly.

Mick laughs a little at the note of desperation that colours Jim’s voice. “I’d take you in my mouth, suck you while you’re still soft. Roll my tongue around the tip while you get harder and heavier against my tongue. Christ, your cock’s huge, Jim,” Mick’s voice wobbles a little, breath hitching a little. Jim’s dick throbs. “I can barely get my fucking lips around it when you finally get hard, but I keep going. Only suck a little bit cos I really wanna see how far down my throat I can get it down my throat before you wake up.”

That’s it. Jim’s hands feel like clumsy sausages as he tries to work his pyjamas open, letting out a quiet, breathless sigh as he finally gets his hand around himself properly. “What else?” he asks. His voice is thin, reedy, his brain starting to go fuzzy, cloudy. He’s melting into the couch cushions, muscles unwinding as Mick massages Jim’s soul a little more with every filthy word. 

“Hmm what else?” Mick says, pausing to think. “I’d tongue at your balls, one at a time, suck em just the way I know you like. Might even start trying to sneak a finger down there too…” Oh fuck, Jim’s dick is fucking drooling in his hand, making slick squelching noises as he works himself up and down, up and down, still excruciatingly slowly, but it’s too much and he has to let go. It’s hard but he does it, fisting his hand in a cushion instead. God , this is fucking torture. Why the fuck did Jim want to torture himself again?

Mick says something very specific about what he wants to do with that finger, and Jim remembers. He misses Mick so much, misses his hands and his body and his tongue and Jim’s entire being is crying out for him, the sound of his voice filling that hole that’s been gnawed into his stomach by the stress of the past few weeks. His hips jerk up, trying to fuck up into nothing as Mick describes in excruciating detail how he wants to rub Jim’s hole with his finger, just that and nothing more, for as long as possible before Jim’s body starts signalling for more. Then Mick will give it what it needs, he’ll suck his finger before he breaches his entrance and work it in so slowly Jim will barely feel the stretch. Follow it with another. Then another. Stroke the velvety walls of Jim’s insides until Jim’s finally awake and practically crying with need.

Jim is nearly crying. His hand’s found its way to his cock again, working it in slow strokes with a loose hand as he continues to thrust up into his grip. Desire makes him dizzy, Mick’s voice pulling him down into that soft, heady place where he can’t feel anything but happiness and pleasure. It sounds like Mick’s opened his window because the sound of rain on his end of the line gets louder, bracketing Jim in stereo sound. He keeps going quiet for a few seconds at a time, and the air just gets filled with their sighs, whines, the soundtrack of the city filling in the background. Somehow, even just hearing Mick occasionally grunt, a signal that he’s still touching himself, turns Jim on almost as much as things he’s saying. It’s a reminder that Mick wants Jim as much as Jim wants Mick, and Jim’s never felt more wanted than he does with those strong hands on him. 

Jim hears Mick’s breathing speed up, hitching every so often, and it makes him realise his own is getting faster too. He chokes off a sob as he forces himself to slow down because he’s still not ready for this to be over. Even if all Mick did for the rest of the phone call was moan in Jim’s ear Jim would be happy, he just wants it to last as long as humanly possible because he doesn’t know the next time he’s going to get this. It’s not like Mick will have time to talk him through his orgasm every night of the week until the next time they see each other.

Mick’s voice finally comes back, hoarse and quiet. “What else do you want me to do to you, baby?” Jim fucking loves it when Mick calls him baby. He doesn’t waste time thinking, just lets his mouth open and pray that whatever comes out makes sense.

“I want you to lick me,” he gasps. Mick gasps. “Eat me out till I’m fucking begging for your cock. Keep going even after I tell you to stop, that I want you to fuck me, because you love the way I taste.”

“I do fucking love the way you taste. I’d lick you for hours. Work my fingers in just so I can pull you wide open and shove my tongue so far into you I’d be able to taste your fucking teeth. Shit, fuck -” Mick mutters at the end, and Jim hears a honking sound that must be coming from outside Mick’s hotel. He doesn’t think much of it, just sighs in relief when Mick clears his throat and continues. “I’ll eat you out and slide my hands between your legs, tug you slow but hard until you and your cock are drooling onto the fucking bed. Get my hand covered in your precome and lick it off because it’s mine, isn’t it? Your come is mine, just like your body’s mine, isn’t it?”

Jim doesn’t miss the way Mick’s voice cracks a little at the end there, seeking assurance that Jim really is his. It is, it is, Jim tells him, over and over again. It’s all his, his body and his come and his tears and his heart. He says all this, listens to Mick groan and thank him.

“Fuck, I wish you were here, Mick,” he sobs, pressing his thumb over the head of his dick, through a pearl of precome. “I want you to fuck me so bad. I need you so bad, my dick’s fucking aching I’m so hard,” he gasps, digging his nails into himself and hissing. “Tell me what you’re doing, tell me, please." Jim doesn't give a fuck how pathetic he sounds as he begs with tears in his eyes. He's too busy concentrating on the music on Mick's voice while he pretends that it's actually Mick who's squeezing the life out of his cock with his massive fists. 

“I’ve got a fucking death grip on my dick and I’m thinking about pounding into you. Been jerking off since the second I heard your voice. Had to stop so I didn’t come too soon, that’s just what your voice does to me.”

Jim bites his lip so hard he’s amazed he doesn’t taste blood.

“I wanna fuck you so bad. Wanna get you on your back so I can look at your whole body because you’re a work of fucking art. Want to fuck into that pretty pink hole, fuck, baby you’re always so tight for me. Wanna feel you clench around me, make you cry and kiss the tears off your face because it’s so good, it’s just so good.” It is so good, it’s too good, and Jim’s jerking off in earnest now. He’s been edging himself for so long and he’s not sure he has it in him to stop this time, especially if Mick’s in the same state. He definitely sounds it, breath coming hard and fast, music to Jim’s ears. Jims orgasm is creeping up on him, like electricity racing up his thighs and down his spine to knot deep in his groin.

“Are you close?” he asks, voice breaking. “I’m so close, I’m so fucking close Mick, I need you so bad.”

“Yeah I’m fucking close, so so fucking close like you wouldn’t believe. I need you too, need to feel you against me, wanna hold you and kiss you and fuck you and -”

Jim nearly jumps out of his skin when someone knocks on his door. He squeaks, hand stilling momentarily as his body jerks, automatically trying to get up to answer the door. That's not fucking happening, unless whoever's there wants beaten to death with Jim's dick.

“What was that?” Mick’s asking, panting like he’s running a marathon. Jim just huffs impatiently, tells him there’s someone at the door but they can fuck off cos Jim’s got more important things to do, like jizzing all over his pants and passing out instantly. But Mick’s telling him to get the door, and Jim’s puzzled because he can’t think straight because his whole blood volume is in his fucking dick. He’s so close he can taste it, so close it fucking hurts , and the idea of stopping makes him want to die. But Mick puts on that voice, the one Jim knows not to disobey, and he’s keening out loud in frustration when the door goes again. Hastily trying to shove his leaking erection back into his pants he stops to the door, praying his sheer height and dishevelled appearance will make whoever it is fuck off back where they came from instantly.

His hand twists the doorknob with such ferocity Jim’s amazed he didn’t break it, and the door’s barely open before he’s grabbed by a black blur. Then his lips are being claimed by a hot mouth, the door’s slamming shut, and Mick’s pawing at him with desperate hands. Jim can’t think. He doesn’t know what the fuck is happening because he can’t fucking think. Mick’s here. Mick’s here. Mick’s here. He’s here and he’s in Jim’s arms and he’s got Jim’s face in his hands as he peppers it with kisses, trailing down Jim’s neck to taste his fluttering heartbeat when Jim lets his head fall back to moan loudly, overwhelmed.      There’s dual soft thumps, and Jim cries out when his dick is engulfed by the wet heat of Mick’s mouth. He’s helpless to resist. There’s no point in trying. He just jerks, lets the tears come as he shakes and cries while Mick sucks his fucking soul out, hands tight and firm on his ass, pulling Jim deeper and deeper in. The muscles of Mick’s throat make short work of Jim, keeps gulping him down until Jim's vision goes white and his knees go weak, choking til his lungs burn while he comes, thick and hot. Mick keeps sucking, nursing him through the orgasm with soft licks and suckles. Jim tries, he really does, to stay upright, even bracing his hands on Mick’s shoulders, but it’s too much and his knees turn to jelly. Mick catches him as he slumps down, letting him down as Jim goes boneless and pliant. Jim flops onto his back, satisfied and empty inside.

“Are you ok baby?” Mick murmurs, stroking the side of Jim’s face, tucked up against Jim's side. He can feel the warmth of his body, the only thing making him even believe that Mick's really here. Jim just smiles weakly in response, not so much looking at Mick as looking through him. “Happy to see me?”

Jim smiles wider, cups his hand around Mick’s. “Mmmmm more than happy. What the fuck are you doing here?” He's too fucked out to bother with pleasantries. 

Mick laughs. “Cos I couldn’t leave my boy in that state. As soon as you called I was shoving my boots on,” He leans in, close to Jim’s ear. “Jerked off all the way here with you on the hands-free speaker. Nearly caused a pile-up on the freeway cos I was too busy thinking about how much I couldn’t wait to suck your dick.”

That makes Jim suck in a hard, wobbly breath, delivering some much needed oxygen to his brain. It’s enough to bring him back to earth a little, sluggishly lifting a hand and reaching towards Mick. Mick leans up a little, looks at him, expression going from a soft and sweet smile to a gasp of pain and laughter when Jim punches him in the shoulder. “What was that for!” he squeals.

Jim does it again. “ That was for fucking jerking while driving! What if you’d crashed and died with your dick in your hand?”

Mick chuckles again, leaning back down to kiss Jim breathless. “I’d have died doing what I love, then,” is all he has to say about that.


Chapter Text

It hurts. Everywhere. Just...everything hurts.

For the most part it’s the good kind of hurt, the kind that Corey asks Jim to leave him with when he needs that specific brand of discipline, and Corey tries to focus on that rather than the aches that he doesn’t want to think about. Like where Jim stubbed out his cigarette. Jim still has a vice grip on Corey’s right hip, beside where he did it, and the pressure makes it throb. It makes him feel sick but it’s exquisite.

Jim lets go briefly, nimble fingers working the cockring off Corey's dick while it's softened a little. 

"You know what you did wrong,” he asks, tossing the ring to the side. “Don't you baby?"

Corey doesn't answer verbally, just nods, looks down at where their bodies are still connected. He’s vaguely amazed Jim hasn't gone soft while they've been talking. Every time he rolls his hips he feels it, still hard and hot inside him. He winces when Jim grabs his chin, forces his face up. 

"Use your words like a big boy, Corey." Jim demands.

"Yes,” Corey sniffs, swallows hard. “I know what I did wrong."

"Good,” Jim nods. “So you know that means I need to punish you, right?"

"Yes," Corey says. He doesn't need Jim to tell him what the punishment's gonna be. It's obvious. Jim’ll do what he does best: using Corey own behaviour against him. 

"Good," Jim says, smiling as his hands curl around Corey's hip and cock again. 

He knows Jim’s not gonna stop. Corey disobeyed an order, and now he has to pay the price. And what a price it’s going to be. Jim tightens his grip, jerks Corey harder, using Corey’s own come as lube. It’s delicious. It’s awful and excruciating. It’s so so fucking good that Corey’s not sure if he’s more than alive than ever or seconds from death. His fingers are cramping where they’re clamped down on Jim’s shoulders, making Jim hiss when his grip twitches as Jim does things like thumb the tip of his dick, or thrusts up particularly sharply. His refractory period is fucked thanks to the sheer number of times Jim’s ruined Corey’s orgasms over the years, so there’s no point in pretending Jim isn’t gonna be able to drag more orgasms out of Corey, whether he likes it or not.

That doesn’t mean he wants to make it easy for Jim. He’s already broken the rules, he’s already come. There’s not much Jim can do to make things worse for him now.

Corey curses himself for thinking that as soon as it crosses his mind.

The orgasm shocks Corey with it’s speed and intensity. Still so stimulated from his first, Corey’s already halfway there when Jim growls “Come for me,” in his ear, and Corey can’t hold back no matter how much he wants to. His dick spits, hitting Jim’s stomach and dribbling down around his hand again. Less than the first time, but enough. The come that had started to dry and become sticky gets slick again; making the most horrendous noises that Corey can’t ignore because it sounds disgusting and slutty and so fucking perfect.

There’s a good boy,” he says with a grin. The praise hits Corey’s veins like heroin, warming him through, dulling the pain. Pushing him towards that place he only goes with Jim. He doesn’t like to call it subspace, but it’s near enough. The place where nothing hurts, nothing matters, it’s just endless, perfect bliss. He can't help the way he starts to shake, hears Jim sigh as the muscles of his ass twitch and spasm, and something about that makes Corey want to cry. It's proof that he's pleasing Jim, that he's riding him just right. That he's not useless. Jim's eyes are closed like he's getting lost in his own world, and he's whispering Corey's name and mumbling soft little endearments. His free hand shifts, running over Corey's torso, making him arch into the touch because it feels so good, like he's being rewarded for being so good. His skin is so sensitive now the lightest touch feels almost overwhelming. Goosbumps and shivers breaking out in the wake of Jim’s caress.  

Until Jim calls him a good boy again, says it again right as he scratches a hand down Corey’s skin, right over the burn. Corey howls, the pain pulling him right back to that agonising knife edge. Fuck , he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. But he gave Jim what he wanted. He came again, managed to come just because Jim fucking told him to. Surely that’s enough? The grip on his dick’s relaxed a little. Corey still hasn’t stopped rocking his hips, Jim hasn’t told him he can. He’s still determined to get Jim off as fast as possible, maybe Jim will concentrate on that. 

But then Jim's back, shaking his own head get back into the game as he starts humping up into Corey harder, trying to match the pace of Corey’s hips. 

“C’mon baby,” he purrs, "You've got another one in you." It’s not a question.

Corey's not convinced, but if he does he’s not gonna give Jim the satisfaction of coming as fast as he wants Corey to. Corey bites his lip, tries to let his mind drift to think of something, anything but the pressure on his prostate and his dick that's making his ears buzz. 

Shawn once threatened to sodomize him with his baseball bat. Corey literally felt his balls retract into his body at that. He tries to conjure that sense of fear and dread again, feeling the swell of his impending orgasm uncoil a little. Good, that’s good, keep going. He remembers the way Shawn looked at him, the hungry look in his icy eyes. At the time Corey wasn't convinced it wasn't meant as a promise instead of a threat, and when Shawn had pressed the bat’s end into Corey's chest and pressed him up against the wall Corey had nearly wet himself. It’s working; his balls relax from where they’d become tight against his body, and some of the ache is easing from his dick. He allows himself a tiny sigh of relief.

" Hey!" Jim's voice cuts through his thoughts. Pain screams through Corey when Jim squeezes his dick with crushing pressure, far too tight to feel good. 

"I fucking told you about staying present,” Shit, Jim’s properly mad. “I fucking told you !" Corey gasps and lurches, nearly falling over as Jim starts jerking him off harder and faster than before, brutal strokes that start to chafe after a minute. He stops fucking up into Corey as he does it, just focuses all his energy and anger into the handjob. 

"I'm gonna stub a cigarette out on your fucking cock if you dare drift away again, Corey," Jim’s free hand yanks at his hip, forcing Corey to rock harder, faster. He keens high at the back of his throat as the zip of Jim's fly scrapes at the tender skin of his ass, the rough denim rubbing his thighs raw. All his hard work is undone. The tightness in his groin starts to build again, and after pushing it away it’s roaring back harder than ever, blanking out everything except Jim’s frenzied movements. His cock twitches, he feels that thick vein start to strain against Jim’s fingers -

Then they’re gone. Corey makes a sound like the air’s just been punched from his lungs, gulping down air as his body processes the shock it feels at the sudden loss of sensation. He can’t fucking think, can’t breathe, can’t feel anything except pulsing agony in his dick and prostate. A plaintive whine slips out, only slightly louder than Jim’s voice, which sounds far away and muffled. Corey can still hear the spite in it clear as day though, telling Corey that’s what he fucking gets for trying to be clever. That he’s going to regret that. Corey already does. He’s had orgasms ruined for him before but nothing like this. This is sheer torture. 

‘Please he grits out, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Jim ignores him, like usual. Just lets go for a second to push Corey to sit up straighter so he can work his left hand between them properly. 

“I was gonna stop there,” Jim twists his hand so his palms facing upwards, cupping Corey’s balls. “But you had to go and ruin it. Just like you always do.” 

Corey just whimpers, Jim’s gonna squeeze his balls, he loves hurting Corey like that. Corey prays and braces himself for the pain. It doesn’t come. Instead there’s a moment of pressure, and Corey’s eyes bulge as Jim forces his finger inside him, along the front of his dick between it and his prostate. The shaking gets worse as Corey tries to stay upright. 

“I thought you were desperate to come,” Jim snarls, his voice a weird mix of threatening and amused. “Thought that’s why you came so fast. I’m starting to think that’s all you’re good for.” He doesn’t give Corey time to adjust, just crooks and pulls his finger towards himself, pressing it into the soft walls of Corey’s insides as if tugging him forward to urge him to move.

Corey can’t even object, can’t cry out because he can’t get a proper breath. Just braces himself against the back of the couch and lets his body take over. Again and again he rises and falls on Jim’s dick and digit, mouth hanging open as he tries to breathe through the sensations assaulting his brain. 

This must be what it feels like to burn alive , he thinks dimly, barely aware of the pain where Jim mercilessly bites into his shoulder, his neck. His focus is completely gone, so overstimulated he can’t think or process anything except for the pressure in his ass. It’s too much, it’s too much. Jim’s going to rip him wide open, eat him alive then spit out his bones. Jim starts thrusting up into him, matching the pace of his fist as it flies over Corey’s dick.

“Get a fucking move on man, my fucking wrist hurts,” he grunts against Corey’s skin. “I took the cock ring off you, you should be shooting off the fourth of fucking July. I said coming’s all you’re good for but now you can’t even do that right.”

That does it. The words sink in and hit their target, and Corey drops his head to Jim’s shoulder and wails as he starts to come. And come, and come, Jim’s finger milking his prostate hard. He shudders, making animal noises that sound like they’re coming from someone else to his own ears. 

‘That’s it baby,’ Jim whispers but Corey can’t hear him. He’s so fucked out his brain is shutting down out of sheer self-preservation, too stimulated and wound up to function. He keeps getting his release but he’s not getting to relax, all the tension building and building in his mind and muscles, like a spring ready to snap. All he can do is hold on when Jim starts fucking up into him again. His hips wont stop jerking, trying to match the pace but his legs are too tired, and the rasp of denim against his thighs is excruciating. The zip of Jim’s jeans goes back to sawing back and forth against that delicate spot. Corey just sobs louder, ignores Jim’s muttered ‘Shut up’ . He can’t shut up. Can’t do anything, because everything’s shutting down but the essential processes. Jim says it again. Corey doesn’t stop.

Jim’s arm flies up, seizing Corey’s throat to cut off the sobbing with a choked gasp and push him upright again. Long fingers press along the side of his neck, and Corey’s vision instantly starts to blur as more tears leak out. Jim swears, swipes his other hand roughly across Corey’s face to wipe them away before clenching it around the head of his dick again. The salt from Jim’s hand soaks into the raw, overstimulated flesh, makes it pulse in Jim’s hand, scarlet and sore.

“Jesus christ man, do you ever shut up? Fuck, can’t even take a cock without crying your eyes out,” Jim growls, scowling, anger and frustration written across his features. “Man up, for fuck’s sake.” 

All Corey can do is hiss wheezily in lieu of an apology, spit bubbling through his lips. He grabs Jim’s wrist and arm with both hands, digs his nails in and  leans his weight forward against the grip so his breathing is as restricted as the blood flow to his brain. He doesn’t want safe , he doesn’t want sane. He just wants to do the right thing for once, give Jim what he wants without fucking up. Maybe if he black out, Jim can just use his body however he likes, and Corey wont have to live with the shame of being so inadequate. 

“Are you gonna try to be quiet?” Jim hisses. Corey can’t answer. Just lets more spit splutter from his lips as he desperately tries to send himself into that black oblivion he’s craving so badly. Jim lets go of Corey’s dick just long enough to press his thumbnail into the burn wound, pushing Corey away from his hand at the same time. Stars burst behind Corey’s eyes as oxygen floods his brain, reeling from the sudden rush. Jim just catches him before he tips over backwards. Corey slumps forward, buries his face in Jim’s neck and whines in relief as his cock is finally left alone. Jim’s movements still, and in his foggy state Corey hopes that it means the end, that he can finally rest. 

But he hears the click of the lube bottle, then two cold, wet hands are pulling him further open. His jaw drops in a silent howl as Jim first works one finger, two, three, four, keeps going till he’s got the tips of the fingers of each hand buried inside Corey’s hole. The stretch is so much, probably too much. Corey feels peeled open, like Jim’s going to rip him in two and fuck the remains. He lies there, boneless and helpless, as Jim starts to piston his hips up into him.

Fuck, you’re so loose. Is that why I needed to finger you, you can’t just come from my dick anymore?” The insult sears into Corey’s brain, pushing him further and further down, the humiliation stacking on top of the overstimulation. “Well, maybe if dick and finger isn’t enough for your slutty hole, maybe you want my whole fist.” Corey just continues to cry, the very idea of Jim fisting him with his huge hand making his dick drool like a faucet. He’s crying too hard to protest when Jim says, “That sounds like a yes to me.”

Corey’s traitorous hips jerk when Jim says that, still trying to rub against something, desperate for some friction despite being in agony. Jim hasn’t said he could stop. Jim told him to come. But Jim still hasn’t come so can I come? he asks himself. He has no idea, nor the energy to think of an answer. 

“You’d let me fist you, wouldn’t you?” Jim pants, voice hitching and breaking, “Yeah you would because you’re a good boy. You’d let me do anything I need to do to you. Anything I want to do to you, because you’re the fucking best, Corey. You take my dick so fucking well, baby, I’m so fucking proud of you.” 

Corey comes. All the cruel words, all the threats, all the pain is worth it because then he gets the praise, and the praise is worth all of that and more. It’s painful, dry because he’s been milked empty, and Jim hugs Corey close against his chest as he jerks and twitches. He goes completely limp as the fight drains out of him, sinking into Jim’s hold completely. Letting Jim just use his body as he sees fit, like the human fleshlight he is. Not even enough energy left to cry, he just mewls quietly as Jim fucks up into him. 

Corey’s hips still twitch, little abortive movements that want to be trusts if only he had the energy to properly hump into Jim. He hasn’t said stop yet.  

That seems to be Jim’s undoing as he grunts loud in his ear, biting down hard on Corey’s shoulder as he finally comes, still thrusting as he pumps what feels like endless amounts of come into Corey, so much it leaks out and smears across their skin. Corey clings to Jim, feels him pulse inside him as his eyes blur and his ears pop. Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, they both relax, gently buffeted by the aftershocks of their climaxes. Corey feels doped up and cloudy, his ears filled with static and so far under that he doesn’t realise Jim’s speaking to him. 

“Mmmm, sit up a bit,” Jim instructs, and Corey tries, like his body’s moving on autopilot. Subconsciously still responding to Jim’s commands, even though his mind’s completely fuzzed out and offline. He makes Corey roll his hips again, what must be agony after everything else but Jim still feels hard inside him. There’s a wet finger pressing at his lips and Corey opens up for it, sucks and licks as Jim feeds him his own come. He moans around the digit as Jim calls him a good boy again, lapping up the praise as he laps up his own release. Opening his eyes he sees Jim staring at him with what looks like veneration in his eyes. He can’t appreciate it though, his own are too heavy, threatening to crash shut with every passing second. Then he’s being lifted, whining softly as he’s left empty and aching. The cold air hitting his stretched and abused hole makes the sense of loss even more potent, makes him quiver in Jim’s arms as he’s hauled up into them. Corey gets lost in the sensation of Jim’s release slowly oozing back out of him. 

The water’s warm, but Corey still whimpers when it hits him as Jim turns the shower on. With one hand on Corey’s back he sponges him down all over, slow methodical strokes that advertise his every slow movement, not wanting to risk shocking Corey into subdrop. The whole time he murmurs praise into the steamy air, tells Corey how proud he is of him, how amazing he is, lavishing him with beautiful words as if trying to make up for every insult he’d thrown at Corey. 

Still Corey can’t help but panic when Jim’s hand moves towards his lower half, hazy brain automatically telling him Jim’s going to try to make him come again. He sobs pathetically, note even able to form proper words as he tries to squirm away, but Jim’s grip is too tight.

“Shhh, shhhh…” Jim soothes quietly. Corey looks up at him, praying he doesn’t see that same expression as before. All he sees is his Jim, though. The one who’d never hurt him. “Stay still,” he says firmly. It’s an order, firm and not up for discussion. So Corey tries, but even the washcloth smoothing down his stomach makes him convulse and cry out, he’s still so sensitive. Then the water is off and there’s a warm, fuzzy towel, strong arms around him, and he’s bundled up in bed against Jim’s chest. Corey can hear his heartbeat, strong and sure. 

The longer he lies there, the more he starts to come back to himself. Tilting his head up a little, he asks, “Why did you clean me up?” It’s a fair question. That kind of aftercare wasn’t discussed. Quite the opposite, actually.

Jim hums quietly. “I guess because you’re no use to me if you break completely,” he answers, dropping a kiss onto Corey’s damp hair.

He doesn’t sell the lie well. Corey knows it’s more to keep the scene persona up, but he opts to let it go, choosing to close his eyes instead.


Chapter Text

Head fuzzy, limbs like lead, Jim’s eyes snap open and blink into the darkness. Something...some kind of nightmare, Jim’s not sure but whatever it was it’s pushed him awake before he was ready. Already he can’t think straight and it sends a trickle of anxiety down his spine. Thoughts crowd his brain like commuters packed into a subway train, and despite the fact it's not even dawn yet Jim knows sleep wont be coming back to him any time soon. John snores quietly beside him, back to Jim, oblivious in the dark. John, who has fast become Jim’s safe home, with his warm brown eyes and musical manner and heart as wide as the mouth of the sea that opened Jim in with open arms. Jim, with all his anxiety and awkwardness.

Twisting, rolling over, Jim buries his nose in the soft downy hairs at the base of John’s skull, trying to find something to focus on, circling his middle with one strong arm to tug them flush together. John's warm, soft, smells of sleep and Jim's fabric softener. It's heady and sweet and Jim's already fucking twitching to life in his pyjama pants. John doesn't even have to do anything to rev Jim up. Literally just his mere existence is enough. 

The room is nearly silent, the faint sounds of the street filtering through the window muffled to Jim's ears by the arms of sleep that still pull at him. His hands don't quite feel like his own when he starts to trace the contours of John's stomach, feels the soft swell, the up and down and in and out movements. Usually John would twitch, sensitive and ticklish, but he’s out; fast asleep and hopefully dreaming of more pleasant things than Jim had been. His touch is still feather-light because his limbs feel immaterial and air-filled when he continues his slow exploration; it’s so nice to just be able to touch like this. He’s wanted John for such a long time, had to resist the urge to reach out and outline the details of his multitude of tattoos, aching to bury his fingers in that platinum hair. Now that he can Jim barely knows what to do with himself. He feels like a kid making out with someone for the first time. He strokes John’s ribs, counts each one, charts that deep dip that marks his waist before it rises to his bony hips again. John’s an odd amalgamation of sharp and soft and hard and round, all wrapped up in colourful wrapping paper to create a thoroughly charming and otherworldly creature that makes Jim’s heart feel full to bursting.

There’s no resisting it when Jim’s hand stars to move along the contours of John’s ass. He just lets it move, runs his hand up one slender thigh, lets it slip between them. Jim’s breath catches when he touches the fine hairs of John’s balls, and he doesn’t miss the hiss, barely perceptible, that comes from the supposedly sleeping body in front of him. He does it again, presses a tiny bit this time. There’s the sound again, slightly louder this time.

A thrill shoots through Jim’s stomach as he sucks his finger, wasting no time in finding that hot little hole, rubbing it firmly but gently. John’s body opens up for him easily, practiced. Just like Jim expected. It’s barely been a few hours since he was doing this exact same thing after all, and fuck, if Jim had his way he’d stay inside John’s body all day every day. Never wants to be away from him. He lifts his hand, spits in it, works another finger in, then another. Keeps his movements slow, as if he had any choice in the matter. There’s tiny little huffs coming from John, could be mistaken for whimpers if Jim squinted a bit, and they grow in volume when Jim crooks his fingers towards himself, stroking those velvety walls. 

Then John’s moving, slowly, as if pushing through treacle. There’s some clattering and then a bottle’s being offered over John’s shoulder; the lube from the bedside table. Jim takes it, wordlessly slicks his hand, dumps the bottle behind him and reaches back below the covers. There’s not a single sound as Jim rubs the lube around John’s rim, teasing his hole with a few fingers again, just holding his hand still while John slowly sways back onto them. His sleepy lips find John’s neck again, press kisses to it and work up to nip at the back of his jaw, drawing the faintest moan from John’s open mouth. Jim’s head swims, he’s so fucking hard and aching to be inside John but he can’t bring himself to move any faster. He wants to make the most of this quiet moment, doesn’t want to burst their dark little bubble where everything is hazy and nothing exists except them.

There’s no alarms, no voices, and Jim’s brain isn’t running a mile a minute with nonsense that threatens to drag him under at any moment. All that’s here is all that matters: John’s satin-skinned body in his arms, their whispers barely loud enough to breach the silence that covers them, insulates them. Every movement is sluggish, and when John whimpers and presses back against Jim again, presses back into his crotch, Jim’s pushed to near delirium with desire but he still maintains a pace that’s so slow it’s almost cruel. He leans up and over, presses sloppy kisses down the side of John’s neck and ends up panting hot heavy breaths at the top of his spine. John whines, sounds like “I need you, ” and Jim’s restraint snaps.

Pulling gently on John’s shoulder, Jim urges him to roll over. John obliges easily, and gathers him to his chest as John folds himself around his whole body, working his arms and legs under and over until he has him enveloped, and their mouths find each other like they’re gasping for air, nearly breaking the surface of the sleep that still weighs down their limbs. Jim brings his legs up, cradles John in his lap as he pushes forward once, twice, dips just the tip in a couple of times, just to feel those muscles clench down as they try to pull him in deeper. Jim lets them, sighing as the warmth draws him in. His hips roll slowly, barely shifting John’s body. John buries his face in Jim’s neck, nips the skin over where his pulse hammers and stutters out all these little sugared “Ah, ah, ah!” sounds. Jim murmurs soft words of praise and encouragement into that cloud of angelic hair, calls John ‘baby’, tells hims “I need you too” . Together they sigh and rumble as they move, neither voice any louder than a gasp, and together their movements speed. Jim’s belly is damp, precome leaking from John’s cock sticking to his skin, and Jim pushes against John’s spine to press them closer together. 

John’s whines, little sounds that make Jim’s dick throb, when Jim smooths a hand down, down, cupping around one downy cheek to tickle his fingers around John’s hole. He doesn’t push in, he doesn’t press hard, just keeps up that stroking motion as John starts to shudder. His hips are slapping into John’s body now, losing his rhythm as he tries to fuck John, finger John, kiss John all at once as they get sweatier and sloppier beneath the heavy autumn blankets.

Bodies acting on instinct they pick up inevitable speed, all stuttering hips and jagged gasps. Jim’s hands clench and twitch where they clutch John’s clammy skin as John digs his heels into Jim’s ass, grinding harder and harder against his stomach as he nears his own release, growling low in his throat and sending Jim into the stratosphere. Jim doesn’t give a fuck about his own orgasm, what little awareness he’s managed to find zeroing in on the lithe little body in his arms. John feels so small, so delicate that Jim’s always worried he’s going to fucking break him, but then John will do something like clamp down on his dick, bite Jim’s throat while he whispers “I love you” with his lips against Jim’s skin and he realises John’s always been the one with all the power. Jim’s just his stunt cock, happily here for John to just take and take and take from, lungs gasping for breath under the emotional weight of their actions. Jim may be bigger, stronger, but John could reach into Jim’s chest and pull out his beating heart, and Jim would die bloody and thankful because it belongs to John anyway. He tells him that, “I’m yours, always, I’m here sugar,” when John sobs out  “Jim, I need you,” Never wants John to doubt that for a second.

Jim hears that familiar inhale, know what it means when John frantically tries to pull him closer, and he whispers “That’s it, sugar, I’ve got you,” as he bites John’s earlobe. There’s the faintest hint of a moan, then his belly is wet and warm, and Jim smiles as he realises John’s coming. He tightens his arms and fucks him through it, burying his face in John’s throat as he tosses his head back and cries out. Jim can’t hold back, those muscles fluttering around his dick coaxing his orgasm from him by force whether he likes it or not as he slams into John again and again. His brows draw down for a second as he bites back a growl, then John’s small hands are on each side of his face, lifting it up and kissing the air from his lungs and that’s it, that’s all Jim needs. The moan pushes over Jim’s tongue and into John’s mouth where it’s greedily swallowed as Jim comes hard and hot, and there’s no semblance of rational thought in Jim’s brain or body right now. Every neuron, every cell, everything that makes him Jim is gone, replaced by John, John, John , repeating over and over like a droning bass drum beat.

The tension ebbs from their bodies as suddenly as it hit, and they sink into the bed, sated and full. Jim’s mind is empty, that post-orgasmic clarity descending to cocoon them both in warmth. For the time being, nothing exists except them, and the silence.


Chapter Text

Corey's not scared. Jim's nearly a full foot taller than him and could snap him like a twig, but he's not scared. Jim's eyes are dark, his mouth set in a firm line, and usually that spells trouble for Corey, but he's not scared.

Time seems to slow as he sees Jim's hands lift, coming towards his face, and he welcomes whatever is coming with open arms. It's been a fuck of a day. A fuck of a week , and Corey's been awful to everyone about everything and he wants this. Needs this. Needs Jim's strength and the violence he brings and the pain-filled absolution that only Jim is capable of giving him to set him back on the right path. 

So he closes his eyes, and waits as the milliseconds drag out like the strings of eternity. 


But Jim’s hands don’t hurt when they grip Corey’s face, cupping his cheeks firmly but gently and it takes Corey by surprise because he wanted that bruising tightness circling his skull. Wanted it so badly that this shift in tone has him off-balance. This is too soft, too kind, he doesn’t deserve it.

Jim doesn't bite into Corey's mouth, instead tracing the seam of his lips with a searching tongue, delicate but determined, until Corey runs out of oxygen and has to open his mouth to gasp. Seizing the opportunity Jim kisses Corey like he's dying, soft but with a certain air of the desire to devour him, and Corey goes weak at the knees and lifts his arms to feebly grasp at Jim's t-shirt. He doesn't understand. This isn't what's meant to happen. This is where Jim should be forcing Corey to his knees and visiting him with all the insulting indignities under the sun while he forces his dick down Corey's throat, and Corey would suck it like...if he doesn't please Jim he'll die.


None of that happens though. Jim moves his hands, presses against Corey's hips to guide him back and against the wall, and Corey whines at the loss when Jim starts to mouth sloppy soft kisses down his throat. He sucks tiny red marks, he nips just enough to make Corey jolt but not hard enough to hurt, scrapes his teeth over the delicate skin of his collarbones until he’s mapped every sensitive inch and Corey is quivering under his hands. 

Corey mumbles, “Please…”, but he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. More? Less? Something specific or nothing at all? The two halves of his brain haven’t managed to come to an agreement yet, one desperate for more of Jim’s devotion, the other desperate for Jim to stop, to abuse him the way he so badly craves. He grits his teeth, squeezing a tear from his eye. “Please stop, uh,” His hands scrabble against the wall and he presses his head back, trying to pull away from the contact. Corey doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve soft, or sweet. Doesn’t deserve Jim . He’s too good, too nice, too gentle for someone like Corey who brings nothing but destruction and mayhem and ruins everything he touches. The shivers grow when Jim’s hands slide up, warm against his sides under his t-shirt, thumbs rubbing gentle lines along Corey’s stomach.

“No,” Jim replies quietly. “You don’t want that.” His hands move higher. Corey trembles harder.

“I do. I swear, Jim, p-please,” Corey whines tearfully, voice hitching a little. “I don’t want this, I - I,” He trails off because he doesn’t know what the fuck he wants. Jim doesn’t reply, just hums under his breath, almost thoughtfully, as his thumb traces a nipple, pressing until it pebbles up under the pressure. A sharp pain sears through him as Jim pinches his nipple, tight and hard, and the pain hits Corey like a ton of bricks. It’s not what he wanted. It didn’t feel right. There was no feeling of pleasure or relief. It just hurt. 

There’s a huff of air, and Corey feels Jim smile against his skin. Corey doesn’t understand. Jim lets go, starts the soft strokes again, both hands on both nipples this time, and Corey feels dizzy. It feels so good but it makes guilt twist in his gut because he shouldn’t be enjoying this, and Jim shouldn’t be wasting his own time like this. Not if he’s not going to give Corey what he needs, because if he doesn’t hurry up Corey will have to make him, and that’s always less satisfying. No one wants an apology they had to ask for.  

But if he’s to get what he wants, Corey’s gonna need to do something, even if it means he loses in the long run. “Jim, I can’t, please,” he stutters. “I don’t need this, I can’t - I can’t do this,” His voice rises as he goes on, frantic breaths catching in his throat. “ You don’t want this, I don’t deserve this -”

“Shut up,” is all Jim says. It’s an order, and Corey’s mouth snaps shut with a clack. Jim strokes his face again, takes his chin and tilts it up so they’re face to face. His smile makes Corey’s heart flip. Those green eyes he loves so much are full of love and kindness and, Corey notices with a jolt, what definitely looks like sadness. His voice is soft, low and gentle, and Corey feels their breath mingle when Jim speaks.

“You’re kinda deserve so much more, baby,” he murmurs, then brings their lips together.


Something in Corey breaks at that. He can’t hold back the emotions anymore, just lets them flow as he grabs Jim’s face and kisses him as the tears drip from his chin. It’s fast, frantic, and Corey can feel Jim trying to slow him down but Corey doesn’t want slow , wants his breath to be taken away so his mind can be a blank slate. Jim’s breath catches as Corey ruts up against him, the friction of the denim sending sparks up his spine as he hiccups and chokes on his tears. But then Jim’s hands are tight around his wrists and he’s taking them off his face, calmly pushing them back against the wall on either side of Corey’s head, taking a step back to break the contact of their hips. Corey wriggles but he knows it’s pointless. He wants so badly to fight back, but his mind is racing, and Jim’s making quiet “Sshhhh,” sounds, lips against Corey’s ear.

Breathe, baby…”

Corey does as he's told. It’s an incredible effort but he taken a deep breath and exhales like he's been holding his breath for a lifetime and just finally hit the surface, able to let it go, and the tension and panic finally ebbs like the tide to be replaced with pure relief. His mouth curls into a twitchy smile, and he giggles nervously as numerous emotions threaten to bubble out. It’s hard but he does it again, and again, and when Jim smiles at him Corey almost believes what he said about deserving more than pain.

“Just let me look after you,” Jim breathes. “I’ll show you what you deserve.”

He’s still panting, trying to clear the static roar of panic from his ears, so Corey misses the dual soft thuds that precede Jim’s lips pressing firm against his stomach, hands making quick work of his belt and fly. Corey lurches forward with a surprised cry, feels his dick start to leak into Jim’s hand where it closes around him, soaking through his underwear. Then there’s a hot wet tongue running long lines up and down and up and down, mouthing at him through the fabric and Corey’s pretty sure he’s having a stroke. Or a religious experience. Probably the latter because when Jim hooks his fingers into those boxers, dragging them down and taking Corey in his mouth in one smooth move, Corey’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven. He yanks off his t-shirt as Jim works the rest of his clothes off, and he feels completely boneless when Jim lifts one leg over his shoulder. Moans colour the air when Jim uses the new-found access to roll Corey’s balls in his palm, suck a finger and rub against his hole. It makes Corey stutter in his throat and beg for more, more, please, more.

Jim obliges him, sucks two fingers into his mouth, getting them nice and wet before gulping Corey down again like not having that dick in his mouth for more than three seconds would kill him. Those fingers move to Corey’s ass, stroke tenderly before starting to work in. Corey jerks, groans out loud at the intrusion, the pressure, then there’s nothing but the overwhelming satisfaction of being full. He thrusts in slow movements, letting Corey hump into and against him in little rough thrusts. Every time his cock nudges the back of Jim’s throat Corey feels like he’s going to pass out, it feels so ridiculously good. And Jim only chokes a little, doesn’t fight it, lets Corey fuck into him without complaint. So good for him, so perfect. Those fingers work him open, twisting and pushing with a gentleness that makes Corey want to die.

But then suddenly he’s empty, and he’s just starting to mourn the loss with a small sound of confusion when Jim grabs him hard, one big hand easily cupping his asscheek. There’s a second of unsteadiness when Jim pulls his other leg out from under him to throw it over his shoulder, then Corey’s breathless and bewildered as Jim stands up. The plaster of the wall scratches at his back as Corey’s slid up it, pressed hard against it by Jim’s mouth still pushing down on his dick, both hands holding him up. He just keeps thinking what the fuck what the fuck , but there’s no way in hell he’s gonna start asking questions now. Not while Jim’s throat is choking the life out of his dick while his tongue licks strips off the base of his balls. He’s making little choking noises and Corey just prays that Jim doesn’t puke and drop him, but in all honesty it’ll probably still be worth it if he does. 

Angling his legs back, Corey manages to anchor his ankles under Jim’s arms, taking a little of his body weight off them, feeling more and more secure as the minutes pass and less convinced he’s going to go into the floor like a fucking dart. Jim manages to bob his head a little more, dragging his tongue as he goes, and lets Corey slip out his mouth completely so he can just suck and lick and lavish attention on the whole length. Corey can’t move, can’t speak, can barely see , but he knows Jim was right. He was wrong to ever doubt him. Jim always knows exactly what Corey needs, even before Corey himself knows. What does it say about Corey that he was so desperate for the pain that he was willing to push Jim away, so convinced that he only deserved punishment and abuse that his first instinct was to push Jim to give him it, rather than think for two seconds and just remember; Jim would never hurt Corey. Not really. The pain he deals him isn’t that kind of pain. There’s no way to truly describe it, it’s just how it is. That's why it hurt so badly, so wrongly when Jim pinched him; pain wasn't what he needed, not in any way, shape, or form.

Now he’s getting all this sweetness, and he’s still not convinced he deserves it but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna fight Jim on it now. He yelps as Jim adjusts his grip, pushing Corey’s dick down his own throat and swallowing hard as he shifts his hands. The yelp turns into a choked-off cry when Jim settles him again, fingers sliding back inside. Fuck, fuck, fuck , Corey’s half convinced he’s having a seizure, his entire body weight pressing down on Jim’s digits so all he can do it flex his fingers against his prostate, over and over and over. His hips start to pump of their own accord, fucking into Jim’s mouth and onto his hand, stimulating himself to the point he’s openly sobbing. Jim’s moaning around him, mouth stuffed so full Corey can feel himself when he thumbs Jim’s cheek. His other hand’s buried in those soft brown locks he loves so much, trying not to pull too hard but he can’t stop his hand clenching and flexing impulsively as that heat starts to coil low in his belly, the vibrations from Jim’s voice sending sparks down his thighs. Corey’s never felt adored . So spoiled. The noises Jim’s ministrations are making are fucking scandalous, wet and wanton, and he can feel Jim starting to shake all over. From the strain of holding Corey up, from need, who knows, but knowing Jim is doing all of this just for him is what sends Corey skyward.


There’s a moment of stillness, where everything seems to stop dead, and the pleasure burning inside him reaches a crescendo, then the floodgates open and Corey’s coming with a gulped gasp that makes his chest heave and his lungs burn. Jim sighs as he swallows every drop down greedily, nursing Corey through his orgasm without changing his pace, taking care to make it as good as he possibly can. As he starts to soften Jim keeps suckling gently before tilting his head back to let Corey fall from his lips. Jesus, Corey’s vision keeps going blurry, and he blinks to try and come back down to earth. It doesn’t work. Even as Jim slides him back down the wall he’s wired to the moon, making tiny whiny noises as Jim kisses him silly, denim-clad erection pressing hard against Corey, who’s so oversensitive it makes him sob. Corey’s fucked out, just weakly wraps his arms around Jim’s neck to bury his face in his warm neck while he shakes.

Jim still hasn’t put him down. Corey straightens his legs, tries to push them down, but Jim’s hands aren’t moving from where they’re clasped under his ass. He shifts, tongues Corey’s earlobe before biting into it.

“You didn’t think that was it, did you?”

Sluggishly Corey lifts his head. There’s no way he heard that right. But Jim’s smirk says it all, and Corey knows he doesn’t have a choice but to go along for the ride. Jim hitches him up a little, reaches behind him to guide Corey to wrap his legs around his back. With one hand now free he caresses the tension from Corey’s sweaty torso, and nails dig in but he doesn't claw down his skin like he usually would. Instead he releases the pressure as he strokes his hands across Corey's body, over the lines of scratches and scars he inflicted in the past. Corey sighs and stretches his arms above his head, letting his head fall back and his back arch into Jim's touch as a hungry, wet mouth trails hurried kisses down his throat.