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You'd Better Shut Your Mouth (Before I Shoot You Down)

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As the drug’s effects decline alongside their heart rates, Jimmy is quick to get up. He’s not one for sentimentality. He distances himself but he doesn’t leave. Over by Johnny’s dresser is a box of cigarettes he hasn’t touched.

Jimmy takes two, lights his own and then passes the lighter and cigarette to Johnny. Personally, Johnny doesn’t enjoy smoking, but with his body feeling like it’s been tossed around- which is practically has- he’ll entertain the nicotine.

He inhales smoke, exhales something that isn’t unlike love. Jimmy sits on the edge of the bed, buttoning up his jeans and letting the cigarette dangle from his lips. They’re thin, but he clearly know how to use them. Johnny wonders just how many have come undone the same way he has- under the guidance of intoxication and hands that fondle with ease.

“You’re thinking too loud,” grumbles Jimmy from his bedside. He’s staring back at Johnny, eyeliner effectively stretched down his cheek from Johnny’s own ministrations. Hm, a certain proudness fills him at having debauched the perfect imagery of the saint. Jimmy’s hair is messed up too- pointing in every single direction.

Johnny shrugs, pulling the sheets over his body. Shame has sunken in- not from their activities, but from Jimmy’s thorough stare. His skin burns under it.

“I’m done being high, I feel terrible right now,” he says. “The girl- whatever her name is- Whatshername,” Johnny decides. “She doesn’t like that I still hang around with you, that I still get high. I’m done.” He burns the cigarette out on his finger, forgetting to wince at the pain due to the adrenaline pooling in his stomach, and throws it across the room.

Jimmy tenses. His eyes go wide and perhaps afraid, like a feline. He opens and closes his mouth, then promptly melts into laughter.

“You’re gonna let that bitch control you?”

Johnny’s about to surrender and shoot up again out of submission and habit, but Whatsername stays in his thoughts.

“She’s not the bitch that I’m letting control me. You are, Jimmy you-”

He’s cut off with the ramming of a fist against his face. The assortment of rings on Jimmy’s fingers lengthen the sting.

Then, his touch is gentle- lifting Johnny’s chin up and bringing Johnny up until he’s meeting the intense stare of two made-up eyes fuming directly at him. Jimmy brings him closer. Right up until where their noses almost touch, and then speaks.

“At least you can remember my name.”

Johnny is flung back into the bed. He tries to crawl away, but Jimmy has straddled him effectively. Johnny stares at the ceiling, practically whimpering with dread.

Jimmy tugs at his hair. “You crying? Of all of us, you’re the bitch.”

He wanted to be free. He wanted to be clean. He wanted this saint who wasn’t really a saint but more of a devil to just fuck off. Johnny wanted so much but before he could fathom it, Jimmy’s hand was making its way under the sheets, across his legs.

Oh. “We did this twenty minutes ago.”

Jimmy scoffs. “Twenty minutes ago I thought you realized that I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.” He punctuates his statement by fisting at Johnny’s dick under the covers. Johnny’s jaw falls open and his throat goes dry.

Jimmy doesn’t stop. Johnny, through hitching breaths, tries to tell himself that it’s just his body’s reaction. It isn’t. God, it isn’t. He’s falling for this again.

Jimmy’s words- if you’re gonna fall, fall the furthest you can. You’ll see more than just sadness.

Johnny falls, and pulls Jimmy down until he can taste himself from earlier, still residue on Jimmy’s lips.

The latter smiles as they meet, not hesitating to bite his lower lip and deepen it. “I was waiting for that.” His hand speeds up rapidly, and for a moment, he’s back on the edge. Heat courses through his veins and fire flares up behind his eyes.

Then the hand stops.


Johnny whines- too loudly to pass and too urgent for Jimmy to ignore.

He swallows. Somewhere in the timeline of Jimmy’s hand, his mouth had gone watery rather than dry. Jimmy smirks down at him, cocky as ever and expecting something.


“Knees, boy” is all his says before Johnny is down from the bed, naked glory on the cheap floors. The zipper on Jimmy’s pants hadn’t even been zipped up all the way. He undoes the three buttons and lets them fall down with his underwear before going to work.

Far away disdain overbears the gurgling sounds. Johnny was in this same position yesterday and the day before, and he’s still letting Jimmy fondle him. Still piling on the guilt and shame as if it’s fool’s gold. Still letting himself be used and wrecked.

Jimmy hands the back of his head and takes over with fervor, not giving Johnny a chance to protest before he’s defiling his mouth the same way he would his ass.

Unabashed grunts and groans come from above him, but Johnny finds himself numbed as warmth fills his mouth. Johnny’s given in, and he’s sure that he will again.

Jimmy takes him, shoves him against the bed, and pounces onto his chest, attacking it with teeth and tongue.

He lets the aches wash over him. They don’t cleanse him, they only serve to dirty him more. Johnny exhales shakily as Jimmy’s hand resumes its previous objective.

“You always fall, you always do what I say. You’re weak, fuck! fuck-” He’s going off again, spitting curses. The saint’s power high begins when a horrified yell comes from the doorway. Johnny can’t react because he’s reached his own climax, convulsing as Jimmy’s hand guides him through- gasping in sync with the stomping behind them. Then looks.

Whatsername stands, leather jacket between her white knuckles.

Her stare renders both speechless. If looks could kill, they'd have been dead twice. 

“You’d better run for your fucking lives,” She hisses. “Start talking.”