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stop the noise

Chapter Text

Pinch yourself

Taste so sweet

Twist and turn you

Into something cheap


Well reserved is what people would call him. John kept to himself, stuck to his schedule and didn’t try to bother anyone around him. He was a good worker, a perfect tenant, and model student. As admirable as he was as a friend or romantic partner, he chose to stick to himself.


It wasn’t hard for him to be alone, ever since he was a kid he always had enjoyed the peace that came from solitude. Growing up with just a sister and his parents in a small town made his enjoyment of quiet grow and grow until he finally moved to his small flat in London where he currently resides.


Something that had always fueled John’s need for silence and solitude was, in fact, his distaste for noise. Not only loud noises and blaring music, or harsh laughs and the chaos of parties and pubs, but almost any noise at all. John rarely talked himself, and the voices of others were barely tolerable, only because he needed to listen to survive in life. If he had the choice, he would wish to never hear another’s voice again.




John had woken up on his own internal clock at around 2:00 pm, not being able to stand the racket of the alarm clock on his bedside table. He had even unscrewed the thing, pulling out the speakers so that there would be no chance of it making noise as long as he owned it.


He was not used to waking up this late, but he was up deep into the night studying in intervals, with much pensive and trance-like moments in between. This was incredibly unusual for John, who preferred to get to bed early so that he wouldn’t wake up late into the day like this.


But last night was different, he was planning for something to finally give him relief from his day to day frustrations.


He pulled his comforter off of his small frame and sat up in bed. It was Saturday, and he now had a well-needed break from lectures and work. Deciding that a cigarette might be a nice way to start off the morning, he threw on his coat and slippers and walked out onto his small balcony, closing the rusting door behind him and relishing in the cool dawn air on his skin.


Down on the street, it was surprisingly lively for an early morning in his neighborhood. The hair on the back of John’s neck became raised when he heard the loud raspy voice of a man walking by, and stopping at the door of his apartment. He ducked against the outside wall of his flat, making himself small and unseen.


From his hidden spot, he observed the man. He was young, probably a little older than John, but he was very youthful, with a slender body and an attractive, feminine face. He spoke to a much taller man, who had a receding hairline and a large wad of bills in his palm, gesturing for the younger to follow him into the building.


A prostitute, he must be. John thought about this idea. He had never liked being with other people, never even had one real romantic relationship. The noise was always the problem. He could hardly bear to even think of what it might be like to have to regularly converse with another person. He stomach became a pit, every content of his body sinking into it at the image of an endless stream of words floating into his ears.


But a prostitute was different. He could pay the person to do whatever he pleased, even to stay silent the whole time.


Now that this idea had popped into John’s mind, he felt a spark in his chest that had never occurred before. It was a feeling of familiarity, of community, of relief. He quickly opened the balcony door and rushed back inside, collapsing onto his bed and peering at the popcorn ceiling of his room.


Had John been lonely? He always knew he hated the sound that came with companionship, but he never really thought about his feelings toward companionship in itself. Laying still over the covers of his bed, he began to cry. He let the tears run over his cheeks, into the long strands of hair that fell around his head, and only became more depressed as he heard his own choked up voice, hating the sound of his pathetic realization.




John waited in the lobby of his apartment building for two hours, with cotton in his ears and a newspaper in hand. He had perched himself on the corner of a worn bench and was absent-mindedly through the pages of the paper, barely reading a thing his eyes danced across.


Finally, he could hear the faint echo of light footsteps trotting down the apartment stairs. He folded the paper and set it down beside himself, and took one piece of cotton out of his ear before standing up.


He stood face to face with the prostitute who had been lured to his apartment, presumably by one of his neighbors. The man was now disheveled and decorated with various red marks around his neck and shoulders, only accentuated by his delicate necklaces and low cut shirt. John stared for a while, not knowing what to say, or how to ask for what he wanted. Eventually, the man cut in.


“Do you need something?” John winced at his high, raspy voice. He put a hand against his unplugged ear, which caused the other to shoot him an uncomfortable look. John then moved his hand away, reached into his pocket and showed the other a few bills of his own.


“I saw my neighbor take you inside.”


The prostitute smirked at John’s bashful approach, then reached to grab the money from John’s hand. He pulled back and put it into his pocket again.


“Come back here at 9:00 pm. My flat is number two on the 3rd floor. You can collect your money afterward, right?”


“Yes, I suppose.” The man sighed and pushed past John, who could not bring his eyes up from the floor. John moved aside to let the prostitute walk towards the lobby door. Before leaving, he turned back and asked for John’s name.


“It’s David.” A lie.


“I’m Roger.” A truth.


The prostitute opened the door and left John alone in the lobby.




It was twenty minutes past 9:00 pm when John heard a knock on his flat door. He stood up from his armchair and walked towards the sound, peering through the peephole to see Roger standing on the other side, mascara applied and a new coat worn loosely over his small frame. John opened the door.


“Hello, David.” Roger smiled at John, walking past him and removing his shoes before walking over to John’s armchair and taking a seat. “Did you want to tell me what you had in mind, and I can give you a price?”


He nodded towards Roger, then walked over to his counter to grab a note he had prepared. The paper was crinkled and had obvious marks of being rewritten several times as if John was not sure what he wanted. He handed the note to Roger and sat next to him.


“What’s this?”


“Just read it.” With hesitance, Roger unfolded the note and began to read.


I’ve never done this before so I’m not exactly sure where to start, but there is something that I need you to do if this is to happen. I would be very happy with you if you were to make no noise at all. Try not to talk, breathe too loud or moan at all. I can pay extra for this if you need me too. I don’t know what to ask for now so I suppose that if you’re okay with this, just nod when you finish reading and you can start with whatever you prefer.”


When Roger turned back to John, his hands were clasped tightly together between his knees, and he stared at the ground. Roger nudged the other’s leg to grab his attention, and when John looked up at him, he nodded as the note told him to.


The first thing that John remembers is Roger putting a warm hand against his cheek and pulling him into a rough kiss. The inexperience John had was obvious, but Roger took control as to not stress him out.


John could tell that Roger was used to being dramatic; unrealistic moans, begging and dirty talking. There were moments where he noticed that Roger was holding back the noises, anything from his usual routine. John wanted to close his hands around the pretty little neck and squeeze until he couldn’t make any noises if he had tried.


Eventually, Roger was on his knees between John’s spread legs, unbuckling his belt and pulling both his trousers and pants down to free his cock. Roger didn’t know what he was expecting, but John showed no signs of embarrassment from his state. He almost felt a bit bad for Roger, who may have thought that he himself wasn’t able to turn John on enough.


Regardless, Roger leaned forward and began to lick and kiss at John’s member, slowly managing to make him hard enough to blow properly. As he took him deeper into his mouth, coming up for quick kisses to the tip at times before swallowing lower down, John couldn’t help himself from gripping tightly on the hair at the base of Roger’s neck.


Roger had developed the habit of scratching at the spot where John’s hip was closest to his back, he would grip there when he felt the need to make any noise. The hand pulling at Roger’s hair began to be too rough, and he could feel his hairs begin to rip from the nape of his neck.


He quickly popped off John’s now throbbing cock, and tapped against his hip aggressively, motioning towards the hand pulling too hard at his hair. John opened his eyes and looked down at the other’s struggle, but did not let go of the blond locks.


“Fuck, you’re pulling too bloody hard!” Roger slapped away John’s hand and sat back, breathing heavily. John looked at his hand, his fingers left with a few strands of the golden hair hanging off of them.


“I told you not to talk,” he whispered. Roger was taken out of his shocked trance, and something in the tone of John’s voice made his eyes flash with fear.


“I’m sorry, I just needed you to stop,” Roger leaned forward again, placing a hand on John’s thigh. “We can keep going.”


John stood up and gestured to his bed across the room. Taking the message, Roger walked over, removed his clothes and laid down on his back.  When John stood above the other, he felt primal in his bones. His blood was pumping through his veins in a way that he could only describe as inhuman; animalistic.


He leaned over Roger and flipped him onto his stomach with almost no grace whatsoever, shoving his head down into the mattress and grinding against his bare ass, his own cock only wet with the spit that Roger had left there moments ago.


“Wait- you need to prep me first- fuck !” without warning, John pushed inside Roger in one fell swoop, not pausing for the other to prepare for pain, or speed, or anything.


The noises, God , the noises that Roger made. They were filled with the most indescribable pain that John had ever heard, and as he brutally thrust in and out of Roger’s tight hole, feeling the dry heat and little specks of blood that came out as he held the other down with all his strength, John had finally enjoyed the noise.


“Please, please stop ! Just give me a minute to adjust, fuck!” John had enjoyed his screams, yes, but the complaining was like nails on a chalkboard to him. He needed Roger to stop talking like he had asked him so nicely to do before.


Quickly, he pulled out of Roger’s now bloody and sore ass and flipped the man over to straddle his chest. With all the fear of the situation, Roger could still feel nothing but relief at this moment, knowing the constant pain would be over momentarily. John peered down at the other, totally spent underneath him, and his heart raced.


He placed his large hands against Roger’s neck, and began to press, tighter and tighter, until he could feel his nerves cool, and start to drain his frustrations into Roger’s flesh. The man below him, now being shaken from his haze, began to squirm, thrash around as John squeezed tighter and tighter. Roger could not breathe, could not speak or call for help, all he was able to do was stare up at John’s darkened eyes and scratch at his hands as hard as he could.




It surprised John, how long it actually took for Roger to faint. It always seemed faster in film, and he thought it wouldn’t require nearly that much force either. He checked the blond’s pulse, knowing he was still alive, and stood up next to the bed, admiring his work. The naked man, lying limp on his messed bedsheets, blood dripping from the inside of his thigh and face red and puffy.


After rolling up his sleeves, John decided that he wanted to finish his job. He grabbed a large fistful of the golden blond hair, and with a rough tug, pulled the limp body to the floor, and dragged it to his kitchen.


It must have been the shock of hitting the floor that woke Roger up, because as John tugged the thin frame across his flat’s floor, he felt weak struggling and straggled breaths. These actions impressed him, he felt pride in knowing that his own brute strength was enough to take the voice away from Roger completely.


John practically threw Roger’s frail body against his kitchen counter, then knelt down by him and grabbed his thin wrists, holding them above his head.


A noise, barely a whisper, left Roger’s mouth. More raspy and high than he had ever heard him.


Please… ” the only movement that Roger could produce anymore was the consistent stream of thick, heavy tears dripping from his eyes.




John couldn’t remember when John had gone unconscious again. He felt no remorse for what he had done, but the absolute pitiful image of Roger laying on his kitchen floor, begging to be saved, made John gag. He had to leave the room.


After a few minutes, John returned with a small hunting knife which he had retrieved from the closet in his bathroom and noticed that Roger was lying completely limp on the ground. Just to be safe, John checked the pulse, still alive; but barely.


The feeling of picking Roger’s small body up in his arms and carrying him to his bathroom made him reminisce in his childhood. He remembered playing games with his sister in their large garden, picking her up and running around, hearing her scream and wail to put him down as he kept going further from the house. This act of carrying Roger felt calmly familiar, only better, more right. The memory was finally quiet.


John dropped Roger’s unconscious body into his tub, hearing his head smack on the ceramic side with a loud thud that made John flinch. He wondered quietly to himself if that would have been enough to kill him, had he thrown him down with a bit more force.


After admiring the quiet, limp frame of the man in the tub, he pulling the small hunting knife from his back pocket and held it against the flesh of Roger’s middle chest. The blade was exceptionally sharp, having never been used to actually hunt once in John’s life. It was a gift from his grandfather, given to him shortly before the old man’s death. John didn’t have the heart to put it to use. Until now, at least.


Slowly, John pressed the blade into Roger’s soft flesh, piercing through and sliding the blade all the way underneath his left nipple. He became mesmerized by the image of the thick, midnight red blood that spilled over Roger’s stomach, so beautifully juxtaposed to the stark white of his pale skin.


His heart was beating faster than he had ever felt it beat before, and the feeling of the hot blood running between his fingers only made his own flesh burn up. The bulge in his pants had returned, and he groaned with the pleasure, the rush that the blood, the violence, the silence gave him.


Slowly, with an excited hesitance, John dared to push his fingers inside the slit he had created in Roger’s chest. The inside of his skin was hotter than anything John had felt in his life, and he struggled to hold in his own horrible noises as he ground his erection into his hand.




When Roger came to for the last time, his eyes shot open and stared right into John; staying that way until John’s own fingers felt the tired heart stop beating in his open chest.


With short, rushed movements, John struggled to open his trousers once again, and slide everything to his knees as he dipped his hand into the blood pouring from Roger’s chest, and rubbed it generously over his throbbing cock, moaning unabashedly at the hot wetness of the liquid over his own skin. He jerked himself in quick, stuttered movements, and in between his heavy breaths and choked noises, came hard into his fist, almost whiting out from the intensity of the pleasure.


He leaned over the edge of the tub, panting aggressively, staring into the mixture of come and blood soaking his entire hand. With curiosity, he brought the wet fingertips to his lips, pausing before darting out his tongue for a taste.


The come was not desirable, but the blood was amazing. He wiped his come-covered hand on a towel folded on the lid of his toilet and reached back into Roger’s open wound to collect as much blood as he could, bringing it back to his lips and licking it off his hand until nothing was left.




Hot water ran down his back as he watched it run down the drain, mixing with the beautiful red still draining from Roger’s body. John stood over the corpse, moving aside from the stream of water so the body could be cleaned as well.


He turned the water off, stepped out from the tub and dried himself, before leaving the bathroom to collect some clean clothes from his dresser. John returned to the bathroom shortly after, dressed in his sleepwear, with some bandages in hand. He moved over to the tub, grabbed another towel and dried Roger until he was easier to move from the bath without slipping from John’s grip.


Sitting on the bathroom floor, John propped Roger up between his legs and began to wrap the bandages around his still bleeding wound. When he had finished, he grabbed his own comb and cleaned up Roger’s wet wavy locks, removing any tangles and even adding in a bit of gel to keep it from becoming to frizzy in the night.


It was a bit of a struggle, but as delicately as he could John picked up Roger’s nude body and cradled him in his arms, holding him like a protective parent as they both left the bathroom and John settled the body nicely under his own bedsheets.


The last few lights outside John’s window were shutting off, and the neighborhood was going to sleep. Before turning off his own light, John looked at his bedside clock. The time read 1:34 am, and he felt quite impressed with his ability to gain a close friend in such a short amount of time.


He leaned to flip off his bedside lamp, and finally settled into sleep, cradling Roger next to him.

Chapter Text

Breathing hurts

Swallowing words

It can't

It can't get much worse


He had spent a month with Roger.


A month of quiet companionship, that he had never experienced before. Every morning, John would take Roger from his bed, place him in the empty tub, go about his day, then come home and sleep with him again.


The one thing John wasn’t quite prepared for was the smell.

Of course, he knew Roger would decompose, just never expected it to be this awful.


After a week of hosting his guest between bed and bath, John came home after classes with a large bag from the local grocer. He opened the door to his bathroom, and the smell was overwhelming.


Like rotting garbage, raw meat, and drying blood. The pale arm of his body draped over the edge of the tub, soft and limp like it was only a plastic bag filled with water. The sockets of his eyes were dark, and his pupils had faded to a milky green colour, all signs of life slowly leaking from the once energetic body.


John closed the bathroom door behind himself and coughed with vigor, holding back gags from the concentrated scent of the body. He tossed his grocery bag into the sink and pulled out one of many purchased air fresheners, tearing it from the package and placing one after the other around the congested room.


The refreshing scent of the products surprisingly cleared up most of the sickening odour, but there was still a layer of sickly fog hiding in the corners of the room. His temples rang with the overwhelming battle of the two strong scents, and John left Roger alone in the bathroom.


Since that incident, John spent a good portion of his earnings at the grocer on air fresheners, changing out the bathroom’s products weekly.




The stress of John’s finals was looming over his shoulders. He knew that he would have to spend a lot more time studying, which frustrated him deeply. He would have to spend many nights late at the college library, and not at home; in bed with Roger.


He found himself constantly drifting through thought during his most recent lectures, angry with himself for his lack of focus at such a vital time in the semester. During particularly long lessons, John would find himself at home in his bed, holding Roger in his arms, and breathing in deeply, his long golden locks smelling of lavender and death.


His other stayed limp in John’s strong arms, and he would slowly caress the dry skin of Roger’s once soft chest, running his fingers over the thick scar under the left nipple, where John had cut him open and drank from his sweet blood. The wound was still scabbed, not nearly healed, and if he wished to, John could pick past the dried blood, and press his fingers deep into the wound once again, letting the old blood leak from Roger, soak into his bed sheets; a permanent reminder of their connection.


If John reached deep enough, he could push his pointer finger between the ribs and feel the still heart. The thick, spongy organ that John had the pleasure of stopping with his own actions. He petted it softly, with his one digit, imagining what it would feel like to still beat faintly against the pad of his finger.


But John wouldn’t break the wound again, not in his own bed, at least. The mess would be to difficult to clean outside of the bath, and he can’t dare to imagine what Roger’s insides smell like right now.


Moving his hand up Roger’s body, he pressed his fingers against his cracked lips, pressing past them and holding down the man’s tongue. He loved the dry feeling of what was once moist and hot around his own cock, and John began to rut up against the thigh of his other.


He held two fingers deep in Roger’s mouth, almost able to touch the back of his tight throat. He rutted with purpose against the skin of Roger’s leg, the only barrier between them, the trousers which John had yet to take off.


He decided to sit up, remove the irritating garment, and straddle his partner just like he had done on their first night together. John inched his way on top of Roger’s chest, grabbed his long blond hair and brought his lips to touch the tip of his own throbbing cock.


With fire lit behind John’s eyes, he pressed into Roger’s mouth, slowly at first, then as deep as he could manage, feeling the back of the throat with his own member. He groaned out loud, keening over in pleasure and frustration with his own verbal reaction. With one hand firmly gripping the back of Roger’s head, and the other holding him up on the headboard of his bed, he began to thrust without hesitation.


The slick of John’s own precum made Roger’s dry mouth easier to slip in and out of with vigor, and the complete arousal of their intimacy was pooling in a burning pool, in the depths of John’s stomach.

His aggressive thrusts became stuttered as he inched closer to his own orgasm, trying to force his cock deeper and harder into Roger’s open throat. He pressed his forehead against the wall above his bed, keening in a few jolted thrusts when he heard a loud, bone snapping pop, and he came, thick and hot into the deep of Roger’s mouth.


When he pulled out, the mouth of his other felt slack and incredibly open, and John admired his lover, his come leaking slowly from the gaping hole. The force of John’s thrusts had managed to dislocate Roger’s sweet jaw, hanging wide in a disturbingly wide Ah shape.


John would caress the sharp of his other’s jawline, and suddenly he is shaken from his daydreaming when he can hear the professor remind his class of the materials they are required to study for the exam.


He looked from side to side with bright, anxious eyes, realizing he was still sitting in the lecture hall, textbook open over his incredibly hard cock. He had been worked up to the point of no return after that particularly sickening fantasy.




The end of day bell rang, and John collected his books and papers into a neat stack, slipping them into his study bag and leaving the study hall. Just as he walked through the door, an older student who had been leaning against the hallway wall had jumped up and walked to John’s side.


He was surprised but continued walking forward, choosing not to give the student any attention. He recognized him from the study hall, but he didn’t think they had any classes together. He had only ever started seeing this student on a daily basis after he had been attending study hall more often, for his upcoming exams. It wasn’t a particularly positive reminder for John, knowing that the time he spent in study hall should be time spent with Roger.


The older student still walked by John’s side with persistence, probably expecting John to give him some sort of recognition, but he continued to ignore him.


“Hello?” the student asked with curiosity, but all that John gave him was a quick look to show that he was listening.


“I thought I’d introduce myself eventually, I’ve been seeing you in study hall and you seem so entranced in your work, it’s very impressing,” he spoke with a strong confidence in every word that left his mouth, which irritated John greatly, the booming power of his sound, “My name’s Freddie, what’s yours, dear?”


“John.” He finally spoke, so that maybe this irritating student would leave him alone after having a bit of John’s attention.


“Well John, I was curious to see if you’d like to go get a drink with me tonight?” Freddie spoke again, with this assurance of his own self, that John drank up and spit right back out. The dark waves of his shoulder length hair covered up his face with choppy bangs, and John could see right into this man’s insecurities. The way he smiled with his mouth closed, practically covered his face as he spoke.


He was trying to be someone he was not truly comfortable with. John would know what to do about that.


“I don’t like pubs or clubs, I’d much rather have you come over to my flat if you’d like to have drinks.” said John, and Freddie’s eyes flashed with delight. He clapped his hands together and smiled at John, displaying his large front teeth, which he quickly moved to shield with his hand once again.


“That sounds wonderful darling. Are you headed home now?”




“Would you mind if I tag along tonight, then?”


“Sure.” John gripped his study bag and winced again at the thought of bringing such a talkative person to his home.




“You do have a nice little flat, don’t you?” Freddie had been perched over the armrest of one of John’s sofas for the past hour, admiring the painting John had hung on his walls, slowly sipping on the second vodka that John had poured him.


“I’m going to turn on the television, if you don’t mind.” John ignored almost all of Freddie’s comments on his home, and hoped that the tellie being turned on would be enough to silence him for a bit. “That’s fine with me, but do think I could use your loo? I haven’t gone since lunch.” Freddie giggled and John froze, the blood flushing from his face and leaving him pale as a ghost.


Roger was in the bath.


“Uh, um, my toilet has not been working for a few days, actually. You’ll have to head to the bathroom in the  building’s lobby.”


“Alright then.” Freddie flashed a smile, and slipped his shoes on before leaving his flat. John exhaled, running his hand through his long brown hair and slouching back into the couch. He knew he had Roger at home, but the thought of having another friend had corrupted his mind from any rational thinking. He was bloody lucky he had thought of the lobby that quick.


Walking over to the tellie and turning the knob to the news channel, John relaxed back into his sofa while absentmindedly listening to the broadcaster. When the story switched, his attention had moved to entirely to the screen.


The next broadcaster had read the headline of a story, ‘King’s Lynn Man Still Missing, Parent’s Ask For Anyone To Help’. A grainy photo of a young man appeared on the screen next to the broadcaster, and John’s heart dropped. It was Roger. Whatever the broadcaster had said next was lost to John, all he could focus on was the black and white face of the man he had with him for the past month. His hair was shorter in the photo, but there was no arguing, it was his lover.


The screen switched to a reporter standing outside a small family home with a couple and a young girl. ‘ WINIFRED, MICHAEL, AND CLARE TAYLOR.’


“Our Roger is such a lovely boy. He has always been a caring, family oriented man and he would never leave for long. Please, if you have seen a young man, 20 years old and long blond hair, around 110 lbs, call the police, call the news, call our family. We just want our son home, we want to know he is safe.”


“That was the mother and family of Roger Meddows Taylor, 21 year old man from King’s Lynn, who ran from home after an argument with his father just one month ago today. He has become a significant case in the small town, and his father recalls his mentions of wanting to live in London. All police around the area have been on the watch for Taylor, in hopes that he can return to his family as soon as possible.”


“I know he’s an adult, but it’s never like him to do something like this. He was still living with us, he would always tell us if he was to leave for even just one night. I pray that he’s safe. I know he was never one to spend time in the safest, scenes, he is a bit of a rebel, a delinquent, but God, please just let him be safe.”


“If you or anyone you know has seen Roger Meddows Taylor, or are aware of his whereabouts, please contact the local police with any information.”


John jumped up and turned the tellie off in shock, and crouched there for a while, staring into the faint glow of the black, buzzing screen. He breathed again, his exhale surprising him with the realization that he had been holding his breath the entire time. He sat there for a few more moments, then heard a knock at his flat door.


“John, it's me, Freddie.” John jumped to his feet, startled but relieved that he now had a distraction from the news story. He unlocked the door again for Freddie, letting him back in and wiping the cool sweat from his forehead.


“Are you alright, dear? You look a bit pale.” Freddie raised a hand to pet lightly on John’s forehead, feeling the cool sticky skin, John’s anxiety leaking into his fingertips.


John breathed heavily keeping eye contact with Freddie in the silence, both so close that they were sharing the air between them. Freddie slid his hand down from John’s forehead to cup his cheek, maintaining their shared gaze.


“You’re alright with this, yes?” John nodded, and Freddie leaned in, slowly, gently, pressing a soft kiss against John’s lips. John returned the kiss, with more fervor, taking Freddie’s lower lip between his teeth and pulling, causing Freddie to let out a low groan. He returned the groan- but out of frustration, not pleasure.


John held tightly to Freddie’s shoulders, pressing him hard against the flat door, startling the other and causing him to yelp.


“Don’t make any noise.” John murmured, and his low, threatening voice made Freddie bite his lip and smirk with arousal. He nodded his head and ground a knee up into John’s groin. John lurched forward, sinking his teeth into Freddie’s neck, and the other gripped onto the back of John’s shirt, holding in his pleasured whimpers.


John continued to suck and nip at Freddie’s neck, leaving bites and bruises all over his tanned skin, marks of John’s power. The strong hands of the submissive man beneath him had moved to John’s hair, his ass, John’s own cock through tight trousers, reaching anywhere for John to keep moving.


Even in the requested silence, Freddie could not hold down the pleasured, open-mouthed gasps of ah ah ah, as John began to palm at his erection over top of Freddie’s fancy leather trousers.


Without warning, John grasped Freddie's wrists in his own right fists, pulling him to the floor. The sound was ear ringing, the clack of Freddie's shoulder smacking against the wooden planks of John's flat. He winced, looking up at John with confusion, only receiving a glare of dark, lustful eyes.


“Bed.” John pointed to the unmade pile of blankets atop his mattress. The sheets were coming off the corners from the aggressive behaviour towards Roger over the last few weeks, and John had been too busy and blissed out to tidy anything.


Freddie pressed down on his knee to hoist his body back up onto his feet, but John had placed a strong hand on his shoulder, forcing him back to the ground.






When Freddie had stripped himself if his clothing, John noticed that he was removing his own lubricant from his trouser pocket. Freddie had been ready to prepare himself for John, which he wouldn't complain about. Whatever would have him be less noisy, he would be pleased to have done.


Freddie leaned into John's headboard, displaying his cock and a tight hole to John, who still sat with his trousers on across from the other. Freddie was thicker than John, but his length was shorter. John had a cock that could reach deep into whatever hole he was using, but the girth was easy enough to take with less preparation.


Long, nimble fingers were now being covered with the lubricant, and Freddie inserted his first digit into the hole, letting the tips circle the rim first, then plunge in swiftly. His head fell back, mouth opening and eyes crinkled shut with pleasure, but no noises left his vocal chords.


John watched with curiosity as Freddie inserted another finger, pushing them both in deeper and scissoring far inside himself. He let out quick breaths and pants, then stared and at John through half-lidded eyes, and nodded.


John reached to Freddie's wrist, pulling his fingers from his ass as he let out a small whimper, and proceeded to hold both wrists about his head, digging the skin into the headboard.


With his free hand, John guided his cock to Freddie's prepped hole, collecting a bit of the lubricant dripping from his thighs and rubbing it over his length.


When John began to ease into Freddie, he could feel his muscles tense and stretch for the thickness of John with such little lube. The man below him keening, arched his back and gripped at the bed sheets as John pushed further.


When he bottomed out, Freddie gasped like a gust of cold air, reaching up to spread his fingers wide over his lover's bare chest. John smacked his hand away and grunted, beginning to thrust harder and faster into Freddie, pushing his body against the bed.


The spot inside Freddie that sparked when John's cock pressed against it was being hit repetitively, making him shut his eyes in pleasure and cover his moans with his free hand.


In a quick movement, John flipped Freddie over and slipped back in his hole with gusto, the hot, disgusting sound of their skin slapping through the room. He leaned over and bit back into Freddie's neck, just like before, when Freddie grimaced and threw John off of him in an impressive feat of strength.


“What is that?” Freddie squealed, throwing the sheets off the bed and pointing to a wide, sticky stain that was underneath his bottom seconds ago. The stain was a deep brown-red, still moist but drying, and smelling of iron and rot. Some of it had transferred to Freddie's thigh where his bottom has rung the liquid out of the mattress.


John thought about Roger. Sometimes bodies leak after death. Perhaps during a particularly aggressive night, John didn't notice Roger has released some of his fluids into his side of the bed. John frowned at the thought of it all.


“It doesn't matter, I'm going to go wash it off.” Freddie got up, careful not to apply pressure to the stain again, and hurried to the bathroom. John jumped up behind him, racing for the door, but Freddie had opened it before he managed to stop him.


They both stood in shock for a moment, Freddie in pure terror upon witnessing the ‘King’s Lynn Boy’– white as clay and long dead– in the bath of his new lover. John waited in anxiety of what Freddie would do.


For a moment that felt as long and wide as the space between the earth and the moon, Freddie waited. His breath was heavy and his eyes were wide as saucers, and John could have sworn he was no longer living in this trance. Slowly, Freddie craned his neck back to be greeted by John’s empty stare, the once brown eyes now practically black with the dilation of their pupils.


“John…” Freddie released the words like a breath, and they barely caught the air which entered John’s own ears before he already had his grip around Freddie’s neck.


His struggle was short; he scratched at John’s hands, tried to reach for his hair to pull it in defense, even attempted to claw at John’s eyes, but to no avail. It was much easier to strangle Freddie. He gave up quick, and waited in agony until John had him unconscious.




On the bathroom floor, John had finished what they had started earlier. With Freddie lying limp on the cold ceramic tiles, John had slipped his still hard cock back in between the slack legs in front of him. He groaned, relishing in the power that the unresponsive body gave him, and began to thrust into Freddie, with every force he could muster.


The stark black hair of the man beneath him had splayed around his head in a halo, and John collected a handful of the strands, holding it tight in one fist while he pressed at the rim of Freddie’s hole, rubbing against his own cock which brushed back and forth against his fingertip. He threw his head down against the man’s chest in pleasure, clenching his eyes and gritting his teeth as he pulled hard at the hair in his fist.


Suddenly, Freddie had come back to consciousness, his half-lidded eyes, going wide when he came to the realisation that John had taken him once more while he had fainted. He tried to scream, but the pressure John had put on his throat had made his vocal chords rough and weak, unable to produce more than raspy groans. Tears trailed down Freddie’s cheek when his quiet sounds of terror and pain only made John thrust harder, pull harder on his hair, and grow more aroused.


Freddie attempted to squirm from John’s heavy strength holding his body down, but John had become overtaken by an animalistic force that was much stronger than Freddie’s weakened body. John stuttered in his thrusts, quickly moving both hands to grip Freddie’s hips and change his angle, holding his ass flush against Johns groin as he came deep inside Freddie’s hole, nails leaving crescent marks on the soft flesh of his body.


The raspy cry and heavy tears that Freddie released on John’s climax were breathtaking, and John grinned at his other’s pain in his post-arousal haze. John slipped his cock out from Freddie, tucking back into his trousers and holding down on Freddie’s throat once again. The man’s eyes widened in terror, and he thrashed his final movements as John pushed his thumbs hard, almost breaking the skin at the middle of Freddie’s throat.


They stayed like that for a moment, and when the flinching arms of the other went relaxed, John released his solid grasp, feeling at the pulse in Freddie’s neck. He was gone.


John let his body soften, he flopped down onto Freddie’s chest and exhaled, finally feeling himself truly in peace after the long, tiring evening. His fingers danced across the bare skin of the still chest which he rested on, and he reached up to brush his hand against Roger’s fingers, dangling from the edge of the bath just above him.


John sat back up on his knees, and propped Freddie haphazardly over the edge of the tub, face pressed against Roger’s chest, and bottom pointing up over the edge, posed delicately in front of John’s own face. He leaned forward, pressing a finger against the tight rim of Freddie’s used hole, and pushed past, digging deep inside him. He removed the first finger, digit coming out moist with lubricant and John’s own come.


For reasons John had not known to himself, he felt the need to experiment with Freddie, exploring his sexual desires and interests. He tried pressing more fingers in the hole in front of him, becoming aroused once more as he managed to start thrusting four of his digits in and out of Freddie’s stretched hole.


Quickly, John pulled his hand away, and began to bite hard at the flesh around his hole, tasting blood from the soft skin which broke between his teeth. He lapped at the wounds, enjoying the warm of the fresh body, and licked feverishly into Freddie’s ass, pressing his tongue past the rim and sucking and kissing at the warm and wetness of it all.


The taste of blood, lubricant, skin and John’s own come mixing together on his taste buds was intoxicating, and John began to rut his cock against his palm through his half buttoned trousers, already hard again after taking Freddie’s life. He pushed his tongue as far as he could inside of Freddie, and slipped his hand into his trousers, fingers dancing on the tip of himself, collecting precome and thrusting into the tight hole of his fist.


John gasped, moving his fist fast along his cock, and he bit down hard on Freddie’s skin as he came onto his hand and pants. He groaned, removing his hand and wiping it off on his thigh. His head felt like it was full of cotton, and his eyes were small black beads, just resting atop his cloth skin. He was almost empty, sitting in the aftershock of his actions.


John stood up, tucking himself into his trousers once more, and washing off his bloody hands in the sink. He stared at himself in the mirror, eyes dark and tired, teeth stained slightly pink from the blood still lingering in his mouth. He reached up and touched his long hair, running his fingers through the strands. The hunting knife sat innocently on the shelf next to the sink, and John reached for the metal black handle, feeling the icy steel under his touch. Holding it to a handful of his hair, he cut the long brown locks away from his head, dropping them into the sink.


He cut the rest of his long hair, staring back at the mess of short waves which now ended just below his ears. He exhaled, then placed the knife back on the shelf where he had taken it from.




It was more difficult to carry Freddie from the floor of the bathroom to his bed, but when he had finished, carrying Roger felt much easier than it had used to. With Roger on one side of John, and Freddie on the other, he felt surrounded by companionship, loving the feeling of their juxtaposing skin pressing against his own. He knew that Freddie was still bleeding, but he hadn’t bothered to clean him up; the blood and fluids on his bed sheets were no longer a concern to him.


John picked up Roger’s arm, and placed it on his chest, splaying the fingers out over his pale expanse of skin. He then moved Freddie’s arm to his stomach, slightly warm fingers tickling the thin line of hair trailing down to his groin. John put an arm around each of his lovers, imagining the faintest sound of their breathing against his neck.


He laid awake for a while, pondering what new friends he could make in the future. 

Chapter Text

Bleed you dry

Against your will

Think you're running

But you're standing still


The aroma of rotting flesh unfurling from John’s bathroom was becoming stronger than any candle, incense or air freshener could mask.


John knew he had to dispose of Roger, but he had no idea what to do. His DNA was all over the corpse, his hair, skin, blood, semen; there was too much to get off and out of him. The time he had spent with Roger was thrilling, a beautiful beginning to John’s discovery of his own sexuality and desires, but he had to let go of his first love sooner than later.


It had been about two long months now, spent with Roger in between his bed and bath, and Freddie alongside the two was a delight. Feeling the cold flesh of his two others touch him every night when he went to sleep warmed John’s heart in a way that he could not describe.


He knew he felt, just… wasn’t sure how. The waves of his mind often stayed still, waters calm and inviting but still icy black; warning of dangers below. It was calming at times, knowing that he lacked the emotions that most others felt each day. The thought of true happiness, boiling anger, sadness flooding through his limbs like ice melting on a hot winter morning; it was all so distant.


All John felt was irritance, boredom, fear, and want. Want . This primal need he couldn’t wrap his head around, winding up all the veins in his body and pulling him taught like a highwire. It drove him mad, but there was always a small spring bloom of love for the emotion, deep inside his core.




He laid awake in bed that night for hours, surrounded by his bodies. Occasional passing cars outside John’s open window blew wind against his sheer curtains, causing them to dance around on their own. He ran a tired hand threw his hair, watching the faint golden light of the street post cascade over his forearm, creating orange highlights and grey shadows.


The clock on his bedside table blinked its red digits slowly, flashing a modest 3:44am . John groaned, feeling anxiety rush in his stomach. The soft, decaying skin of the blond on his left practically slithered down his side when he shifted, and John gagged, breathing in a particularly deep whiff of the body. Roger had become absolutely putrid.


While holding in his breath, John stood up and stretched, climbing over Freddie’s lax body and staring down at his two loves. He shuffled to the foot of the bed, and grabbed onto one of Roger’s thin ankles. The flesh moved separately from the bones, and John could feel every soft piece of muscle squishing around in the lose casing of the leg that was once Roger’s healthy body.


John held back another groan as he began to pull the corpse to the end of the bed carefully, so not to stir around it’s spoiled contents. He hoisted Roger’s head over his shoulder, and trudged ruefully to the bathroom, knowing what he had to do. He released Roger’s body over the bath and let him slide to the ceramic of the tub, skin almost matching to the cloudy white.


Roger could have been someone else; he was still recognizable, but he had changed so much over the time he had been with John. His eyes had sunk remarkably, much of his hair had fallen out, the stretch of his mouth unnaturally large from aggressive use. The way he was similar yet so different appealed to John, reminding him of how his power could affect his lovers.


He turned to the shelf by the sink, and reached for the familiar cool handle of his hunting knife. Clicking it open was like a drag from a cigarette, sparking a flame in his chest that intoxicated him and buzzed through his bloodstream. John returned to kneeling by the tub, and began to press the blade against Roger’s shoulder.


He had to push hard, and even then it took surprisingly long to cut the skin down to the bone around each of Roger’s thin limbs. The most interesting thing to John was the lack of blood. Sure there was some, but not nearly as must as he suspected there would be from dismembering a body. Whether it was the amount of sweet liquid John had drank from the corpse, or the age of decomposition drying him away, John would not complain; it made the task much easier.


The limbs were not too difficult to split at their joints, which pleased John. The sound was one that didn’t bother him either, a satisfying pop of each bone leaving the place it had known its whole life. One after the other, John moved the legs and arms into a large black trash bag on his left, and he tied it up when complete.


He stood to look at his work and felt incredible pride, the beautiful torso of his lover laying alone in the bath, only hs head left to stare back at John with clouded and unfocused eyes. John took the trash bag to his front door, leaving it to take out and dispose of in the morning. For now, he returned to Roger’s torso lying in the bath.


John gripped the hunting knife in his hand, and eyed the exposed skin of Roger’s neck. He leaned down to trail a finger over the smooth expanse, before abruptly swinging down on it with the knife, puncturing his other with the sharp tip of the blade, then twisting with all his strength. John did so repeatedly, turning him by the shoulders to attack at different angles.


The scent was sickeningly sweet, escaping from the thick open wounds John had created, and he inhaled deep, shutting his eyes and picturing Roger alive; seeing, living, feeling everything John had just done. He would be unable to speak, his throat absolutely ruined by John’s attack, and he would just lay there, not even able to fight back with a lack of limbs.


John placed the hunting knife on the closed toilet lid and reached down to Roger, one hand gripping a handful of hair, the other pressing down hard on his shoulder. He pulled with all the strength he could muster, and in a loud crackling snap, Roger’s neck had broken, releasing it to hang loosely from where John had held his blond locks.


It was a wonderful sight; the completely limbless, headless torso alone in the tub, Roger’s sweet scared face immortalized in John’s arms. He took the head, and in a quick and cheesy, fiction-influenced decision, brought it to his kitchen and placed it in the freezer. How strange it had looked, sitting upright and facing John, it’s only neighboring contents, a half full ice tray and some old containers of leftover meals.


John took another trash bag and placed the torso inside it, leaving it with the limbs to dispose of in the morning.




The abrupt knocking came earlier than John would have hoped. He felt groggy, mouth dry and sticky at the same time and eyes still barely opened. He sat up and stretched, wincing at the sound of his joints cracking from a few short hours of stilled, uninterrupted sleep. Another series of aggressive knocks brought John to complete consciousness, and he hopped out of bed, slipping on a tee-shirt and scurrying to the door.


Through the peephole he recognised a mess of brown curls and a displeased, but well structured face; the man who lived next door, Brian. John’s building only had four floors, and to each floor was just two flats, so whoever you ended up with as a neighbor was always in close quarters.


John slid the trash bags past the kitchen counter, out of view, and turned the deadbolt to open the door a bit, the chain preventing it from cracking much further than a few inches.


“Good morning,” said Brian, the anger and irritation streaming from his unfriendly expression. “I’m sure you were having another great time last night, but I’ve been leaving you notes in your mailbox every bloody week to keep it down. I come home from work at 1:00am, and I don’t enjoy the antics you get up to so late in the night, I can hardly sleep with all the banging and cracking noises. What are you even doing, mate? Because I don’t quite know why you’d be doing construction or something like that in the dark past midnight. Bloody ridiculous, it is.”


John blinked slowly, trying to process all the words he had just been berated with. He closed the door to slide open the chain, then was able to step out into the hallway of the building. He looked at his mailbox and saw the multiple slips of folded papers which had been placed there over the past weeks. He had been so caught up in his relationships that he hadn’t even bothered to check his mail (or clean, go to his classes, eat proper meals, but those were all issues for another time).


“Look, I’m tired of putting those things there if you’re not going to read them, so I thought I’d just come and wake you up bright and early instead, get a taste of your own medicine.” Brian tapped his foot against the rough carpet of the hall, gripping and ungripping on the hem of his low buttoned shirt.


“I’m sorry, I’ll be more quiet. I wasn’t aware it was that loud.” John began to close the door again when Brian stopped him with a quick slip of his shoe in the doorway.


“Wait John,” he held in his breath, “Come to my flat later, I want to speak with you about other things. Don’t dip out on me.” Brian removed his shoe and walked back to his flat as if their interaction never happened.


When John was able to shut the door, he threw his back against it and slid to the ground, putting his head in his hands and pulling feverishly at his bangs, which had begun to grow out again. He threw his heavy head back at the door, looking up at his ceiling and releasing a sigh.


How long had he been so distracted by his new hobbies that he had completely forgotten about other’s perceptions of him? He was caught up entirely in a bliss of the killing that he had strayed completely from his normal behaviour. The black trash bags he had pushed into the kitchen before answering the door were calling to him, and he pushed himself up off the floor with a sigh.




It was easier that he would have imagined to get rid of the body. John had taken the heavy bags out behind his building, a bit panicked at first with his lack of a plan, but had been graciously blessed with the sight of a loose manhole in the alleyway. When the road had stilled and no passengers were walking about, John slid the cover open with his foot and dropped the bags inside, their sleek plastic sinking into the darkness of the well like a black hole.




It was about 8:30 pm when John wondered how late Brian had expected him to come over. The question was so strange; Brian had never had interest in socializing with him, so why now? Perhaps, the idea floated through John’s anxious mind, Brian was suspicious of John, and had set up police officers or a recording device in his flat, waiting to get a confession or incriminating evidence from the blubbering wreck that John had become.


He hadn’t even realised he was shaking in his seat when he was interrupted by another knock at the door. A few loose floorboards beneath the hallway carpet creaked on the other side, when John opened up to see Brian standing at his doorway, rocking from foot to foot.


“Did you forget I asked you to come over earlier? I’ve been waiting around wondering if you decided not to show up. I told you not to dip out.” Brian seemed irritated, but in a friendly way. The words had sent relief through John’s body, something about his neighbor’s tone had seemed safer; assuring John that he would be fine.


His eyes invaded the flat when John stepped aside to let Brian in. He wasn’t sure exactly why he had let Brian in, but something about it felt right. The shoes his neighbor had sported on his short walk over were funny, large white and brown things, that looked unconventional in every way. His eyes followed the taller man’s movements as he slid them from his feet and walked over to the living room, taking a seat on one of John’s sofas.


“You don’t mind talking here then, I suppose?” The dull floral patterned cushions of the sofa seemed to swallow him as he sunk down into a relaxed position. “Because it’s … quite important. Something I’ve noticed that I wanted to discuss.”


The pattering of John’s heartbeat stilled to an almost concerningly slow pace. What had Brian noticed? Oh hell, he knows, he knows and he going to call the police on John, or worse, kill him right here to avenge the two John had taken away. He took a seat across from Brian, collecting himself and contorting his anxiety into a neutral, almost complaisant expression.


“What’s on your mind, Brian?” the words seemed to echo around the room, which even though filled with contents, felt almost eerily empty as the two sat across each other; an unaddressed tension hanging like thick black sheets in the air.


The face returned to his inquiry was sickening; this smile which spoke nothing and everything at the same time. Brian let out a small, huff of a laugh.


“I know. I know, that you know, that I know.” the sentence was jumbled, hard to understand as John’s body was trying to rejecting everything and anything from entering or escaping, but he was aware of exactly what Brian meant. The silence sifted through his senses for what seemed like eternity.


Finally, John spoke. “What are you going to do?” his question was that, a question ; but also a plea, a ‘getting down on my knees and begging for anything that will make you stay quiet’ kind of plea. The floor creaked underneath even the slightest shifts of Brian’s lanky body lying across his sofa, and John felt like that floor; everything Brian did making him bend and break, wanting to scream out just like the old wood.


“I’m not going to do anything, it’s what I want you to do.” Brian sat up and placed his head in his hands, leaning over and smiling at John.


“What I’m going to do? Money? Do you want money? I’m sorry I- I have nothing, I haven’t been to work in weeks.” the fearful, festering feeling of shame was boiling through his throat; he was so pathetic to give up like this, but what did he know? Brian very well could have the police just outside the building, it was far too risky to try anything like he had done with Roger or Freddie.


The half full glass of vodka Roger had poured for Freddie so long ago was still sitting on his coffee table, and Brian leaned over, turning it around and examining the glass before raising an eyebrow at John, panicking in front of him. “I don’t want any money John, stop losing your mind. I want something better.” John gulped when Brian spoke, “I want you to hurt me.”


The simple sentence, barely more than even five words, had somehow been an entire novel simultaneously. The soft fabric of the armrests beneath John’s fingertips had been worn down by his worried fidgeting, clawing and pulling at any loose thread his hand had touched.


“You can be honest with me John. I’ve seen it all, heard it all. The first boy you had; The King’s Lynn Boy! I was more than shocked when I had saw him on the news a few weeks later, because I had already known what you had done to him,” Brian spoke slowly, yet exaggerated; drawing the stress away from John, but replacing it with confusion.


“I can hear it all, you know. The walls are horribly thin, and you weren’t exactly precocious when you went at him. God, the yelling when you did him raw… So bloody hot, John.” Brian had gotten up from his spot on the couch across from John, walked around the coffee table and found himself comfortable straddling John’s lap. Without a better idea, John had taken his grip from the armrests and moved to squeeze Brian’s thin hips, relishing in the way he pressed his body closer at the touch.


“I want you to do me like that. Take me apart however you wish. Bloody cut me to pieces and I’d still stay and do anything for you, I swear it’s true.” God, this was too much to handle. For once in John’s long, pained life, he had finally found a sound that he couldn’t get enough of. Brian had been whispering into his ear now, breath hot and wanting at John’s neck, making the hair there stand up on end.


The way he spoke was filthy, absolutely disgusting murmurs and rambling of all the ways he would let John take him; all fours on the bed, pressed over the back of the sofa, up against the wall with long legs wrapped around John’s powerful hips, face down on the bloody floor, if John wanted.


The way Brian had become increasingly hard, rutting and rubbing his cock on John’s thigh through both their trousers. John hadn’t even done anything to him, and then man was already so close, begging and crying for John to touch him, anything. He hadn’t even touched his lips to the taller man, all Brian had done was thrown his long arms over John’s shoulders and groaned into his soft neck, speaking tongues as he pressed his aching cock on John’s leg.


Finally, john had pushed Brian back, gripping his long brown curls between thick fingers and tugging back hard, forcing Brian to look up at the ceiling and expose his cream-coloured neck to wanting eyes. John lurched forward and bit hard on the junction of skin between his collarbone and shoulder, making Brian cry out in pain and pleasure, grasping and ungrasping frantically at the front of John’s half done button-down.


“John, fuck… Get me down and take me, please… I need it so badly-” Brian keened under another hard bite front John, this time drawing sweet dark blood over the milky light of Brian’s flesh. The taller man sat up quickly, removing his trousers and practically tearing open his own top, then falling to his knees in front of John’s lap, staring up with lustful, foggy eyes.


“How do you want me?” he asked like a child, such innocence and peace in his voice like he had said nothing of the words he whispered before. The twitching of John’s cock was incredibly distracting now, he needed touch, needed Brian, needed it now.


“Get on the bed, Bri.” the nickname made the taller man squeal, but he obeyed and walked to the unmade mess of John’s bedsheets. John followed, admiring the submissive behaviour of his new partner, pointing his soft bottom up high on his hands and knees, waiting for John to do whatever he pleased, even ignoring his own pulsing cock, leaking precome so much that it had dribbled to the mattress in a small dark spot.


The sound of the zipper on John’s trouser’s was music to Brian’s ears, and without even removing his clothing, John had crawled up behind Brian on the bed, only his thick cock exposed from his undone trousers, caressing the dip at the end of Brian’s boney spine.

“Fuck- fuck me John, come on…” John spit generously- too generously - onto his palm and slicked up his cock, groaning at finally being touched, and pressed the tip towards Brian’s hole, pushing in slowly, then all at once. Brian cried out underneath him, all the muscles inside him fluttering and clenching around John, almost enough to make him come right then.


The stretch was painful, but Brian relished in it. Thrusts from John started experimentally, seeing how much Brian could take with no preparation whatsoever, then became rougher, harder, filled with animalistic lust. Sounds of skin slapping quick and loud filled the flat, and Brian’s wanton moans were load and spilling with emotion, the burn of John’s strength entering through his aggressive movements and leaving Brian’s body from the tips of his fingertips, clenching hard at the sheets beneath him.


“God, you sound awful… Oh, fuck,” John let out in a breathy groan, gripping hard enough on Brian’s soft ass to leave fingertip shaped bruises in a beautiful purple flower. He laid a wide spread hand on the taller man’s upper back, pressing his chest hard into the bed, low enough that the tip of his cock brushed so slightly against the mattress upon each hard thrust.


The next few thrusts were deep, pressing into the spot inside Brian that released the most wanton noises, and he came right then, John’s name on his tongue in a low, loud cry. John loved how Brian collapsed from exhaustion, the way his tired body felt so familiar, so similar to his past lovers’ limp bodies after he had his way with them. John thrust once, twice, three times into Brian’s oversensitive hole, then came hard and fast, his eyes whiting out and his voice caught deep in his throat.


John collapsed over Brian, spent and sore and soft after pulling out of the tight, used hole. The taller man shifted out from underneath him, staring at his lover through half lidded eyes. Brian smiled, warm and blissed out, showing off pearly white teeth and beautiful pointed canines. John wanted to smile in return, but couldn't bring himself to.


Instead, he let out a tired and flat comment, “What am I to do with you now?”


Brian closed his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together as John finally gave him a pleased look.