fic: (f13/mbv x-over, clay/tom, nc17)
SO I TOLD Y'ALL THIS WAS WEIRD. Anyway, I don't think I'm done with these guys, or this verse. Whatever! I foresee all sorts of strange things coming from it in the future. Maybe eventually something that isn't short and lame, even!
I'M SORRY... :|
Title: shove your hope where it don’t shine
Fandom[s]: Friday the 13th/My Bloody Valentine
Characters: Clay Miller/Tom Hanniger
Rating: r/nc17
Word Count: 1500
Summary: DISTURBIA. Or, Effed Up Boys and the Effects Thereof.
Disclaimer: Nope. Not even a little.
Notes: This takes place some indeterminate time after the events in both films.
Clay was fully aware of what he was doing, and why. Maybe if he were a smarter man, or hell, even a dumber one, he’d be able to walk away from this and find someone else to fuck. Someone else to use. Someone who might help him mend and work through the past eating him alive a little more each day.
Instead, there was Tom. And Tom helped him forget, even if only for a little while. The sad-eyed stranger had followed Clay home from the latest in a long line of street dives and blown his mind along with his dick. It was supposed to have been a distraction, a drunken, self-destructive fuck-you to Crystal Lake and those fucking doomed teenagers, those fucking poor bastards. Most of all, himself.
If he hadn’t visited Whitney that same afternoon, haunted by the blankness in his sister’s wide eyes, he never would’ve been there. Drinking himself under the table and scaring the locals with gibberish about ghosts and nightmares they’d never have to face.
He never would’ve given into the green eyes trailing him all night, wouldn’t have taken up the offer they presented. Tom liked to play games. The guy wanted to be hurt, and punished. Clay wanted to punish something. Anything.
Tom helped him forget, and Clay liked forgetting.
xxx
“You just keep coming back,” Clay said, watching the bulbous head of his cock get swallowed by Tom’s pink hole. He deliberately tightened his fingers, mapping the way for new bruises on freckled flesh. “Some people might say you were crazy.”
“Maybe some people do,” Tom said through his teeth. He pressed back onto Clay’s dick, a little whimper-whine thickening his breath, and Clay licked his lips. “Harder. More, dammit. I know what you want. Make me feel it, too.”
The thought that he could be right boiled in Clay’s blood.
“You don’t know me at all,” he said, holding the other man down. Shoving his face in too-soft motel pillows and pounding his hips. The bare curve of Tom’s shoulder, a spattering of freckles surrounding jagged, too-white scar tissue caught his gaze. He bit down, too hard, and thrilled to the sharp hiss that escaped pretty, pink lips. He tasted salt-sweat and blood, and glimpsed the faintest lines of a filthy mask, deadened eyes, behind his lids.
No. He gripped Tom harder, drove in deeper. He barely recognized the pleasure that came with the pain, Tom’s stuttered sighs and screams egging him on.
“I know you’re running away from something,” Tom said after Clay shot his load all over his ass, after Tom whirled around and climbed on top and rode him several minutes more with a burning challenge in his eyes. There was an almost dreamy quality now to his husky-rough voice that threw Clay off-kilter. They didn’t do this. Not when Clay wasn’t fucking him. Not when his cock wasn’t snugged tight inside Tom’s mouth, or hole… squeezing out every dark thought and whim along with his come.
“We’re all runnin’ from something.”
“You’re sad tonight.” Tom’s tongue traced the corded muscle of his neck, and Clay turned his head. He was mildly shocked when Tom reached out and forced his gaze back with strong fingers. “Tell me who hurt you, little boy.”
“Shut the fuck up.” There was a hard edge to his own voice as he sat up and shoved Tom’s questing fingers away. He shook his head immediately after, not wanting to see the smug glint in green-gold eyes, not wanting to hear the answer. “We don’t do this,” he said, staring at the wound in Tom’s shoulder that bore the shape of his own mouth. He swallowed against the bile burning and climbing in his throat. “I don’t wanna know you.”
Ironically, perversely, he thought of Whitney. Of his sister wasting away behind the sterile white walls of a mental hospital, her mind forever frozen on the moment a mass-murderer took her away from him.
Whitney might have lived through Jason Voorhees’ final attack, but Clay was the only survivor.
“Let me take care of you, Clay,” Tom murmured, pressing his lips along the edge of Clay’s jaw. His fingers played with the short hairs dusting Clay’s balls. “I’m here.”
Hadn’t he said the same thing? To Whitney, when she no longer recognized his voice. To Mom, before he’d finally gotten fed up. Fed up, and ran far away like the scared little boy Tom was accusing him of being. Fed up with wanting to help, and needing not to.
Clay ground his teeth and fed Tom his dick, instead.
xxx
He got the phone call a week later. Apologies, quiet voices laced with sympathy and dread. She’d taken a razor blade, they said. Stole it from a nurse’s station while no one was looking. It was nobody’s fault. It was a tragedy, an accident. Catatonic, they’d thought, and it shouldn’t have ever been possible.
But it had been. And there was so much blood, and so little necessary to finish the job. Whitney had succeeded where Jason had failed, and Clay was the fucking punchline.
xxx
He didn’t even know Tom’s last name. He didn’t know how or why , and it probably didn’t much matter. Whatever the reason, Tom was there. He listened to everything Clay would never say; he he let Clay shove him up against the wall, growl obsenities into his skin and handle him like a fucking sociopath.
Tonight, though, he got into it, too. Wild-eyed and bristling, begging for Clay’s dick while drawing blood with his teeth. Clay hated the part of himself that came to life then, that flight-or-fight response buried deep-down and suppressed with memories and names and faces. Poor, doomed bastards.
“Fuck me,” Tom groaned, bent over the mattress with legs spread wide and sweat slicking the way. Clay grit his teeth and got a hand around his cock. Sank inch-by-inch into tight, clenching heat. He didn’t wait for Tom to adjust, for that shaky nod of assent. He pulled back and dove back in, reaching up and wrapping a hand around Tom’s neck.
“You’re sick,” he said, to himself more than anything. Tom felt so good around his dick. “You fucking love this.”
“Love you,” Tom spat into the sheets, or maybe Clay was only hearing what he wanted to hear. What he needed to delve even deeper into his own destruction. Tom’s cheeks held a glossy pink; eyes heavy-lidded and dangerous. “Tell me what you want, Clay.”
“I wanna fuck your ass until you scream,” Clay said, unthinking, the truth spilling out like bile. “I want my sister back. I want everyone to pay. I want…”
“Done,” Tom whispered, and he came, squirming on Clay’s dick.
His own orgasm was a bitter roil deep in his belly, edged with salt and tears.
xxx
He heard the sirens long after midnight. Blue and red streaks of light past the curtains, wailing in the night that had him sitting up in bed and rubbing bleary eyes. He hadn’t showered after that last time and he smelled of come and sweat and cheap cologne. Tom.
Tom, who wasn’t there.
The doorbell rang, and Clay blinked. There was really only one person it could be.
“No more running,” Tom said as he opened the door, and Clay stared at the rusty streaks on the other man’s face. Hands. Smearing his clothing, the smell of copper and fear. Sterile white walls.
“What did you do?” Clay said, a sickening rock-and-roll in his stomach as Tom’s fingers crept along his naked spine. “Oh, Jesus, Tom…”
Tom only pressed his mouth where his fingers had been. Clay jerked away, tried to make sense of slowly dawning realization. It was difficult with the familiar stroking, teasing. Comfort.
The sirens faded away as Tom’s lips closed over his own.
“I’m here, little boy,” Tom said, whispered, stroking Clay’s hair and pulling back to stare with those green-gold, sinful eyes. “Let me take care of you.”
The end.
I'M SORRY... :|
Title: shove your hope where it don’t shine
Fandom[s]: Friday the 13th/My Bloody Valentine
Characters: Clay Miller/Tom Hanniger
Rating: r/nc17
Word Count: 1500
Summary: DISTURBIA. Or, Effed Up Boys and the Effects Thereof.
Disclaimer: Nope. Not even a little.
Notes: This takes place some indeterminate time after the events in both films.
Clay was fully aware of what he was doing, and why. Maybe if he were a smarter man, or hell, even a dumber one, he’d be able to walk away from this and find someone else to fuck. Someone else to use. Someone who might help him mend and work through the past eating him alive a little more each day.
Instead, there was Tom. And Tom helped him forget, even if only for a little while. The sad-eyed stranger had followed Clay home from the latest in a long line of street dives and blown his mind along with his dick. It was supposed to have been a distraction, a drunken, self-destructive fuck-you to Crystal Lake and those fucking doomed teenagers, those fucking poor bastards. Most of all, himself.
If he hadn’t visited Whitney that same afternoon, haunted by the blankness in his sister’s wide eyes, he never would’ve been there. Drinking himself under the table and scaring the locals with gibberish about ghosts and nightmares they’d never have to face.
He never would’ve given into the green eyes trailing him all night, wouldn’t have taken up the offer they presented. Tom liked to play games. The guy wanted to be hurt, and punished. Clay wanted to punish something. Anything.
Tom helped him forget, and Clay liked forgetting.
xxx
“You just keep coming back,” Clay said, watching the bulbous head of his cock get swallowed by Tom’s pink hole. He deliberately tightened his fingers, mapping the way for new bruises on freckled flesh. “Some people might say you were crazy.”
“Maybe some people do,” Tom said through his teeth. He pressed back onto Clay’s dick, a little whimper-whine thickening his breath, and Clay licked his lips. “Harder. More, dammit. I know what you want. Make me feel it, too.”
The thought that he could be right boiled in Clay’s blood.
“You don’t know me at all,” he said, holding the other man down. Shoving his face in too-soft motel pillows and pounding his hips. The bare curve of Tom’s shoulder, a spattering of freckles surrounding jagged, too-white scar tissue caught his gaze. He bit down, too hard, and thrilled to the sharp hiss that escaped pretty, pink lips. He tasted salt-sweat and blood, and glimpsed the faintest lines of a filthy mask, deadened eyes, behind his lids.
No. He gripped Tom harder, drove in deeper. He barely recognized the pleasure that came with the pain, Tom’s stuttered sighs and screams egging him on.
“I know you’re running away from something,” Tom said after Clay shot his load all over his ass, after Tom whirled around and climbed on top and rode him several minutes more with a burning challenge in his eyes. There was an almost dreamy quality now to his husky-rough voice that threw Clay off-kilter. They didn’t do this. Not when Clay wasn’t fucking him. Not when his cock wasn’t snugged tight inside Tom’s mouth, or hole… squeezing out every dark thought and whim along with his come.
“We’re all runnin’ from something.”
“You’re sad tonight.” Tom’s tongue traced the corded muscle of his neck, and Clay turned his head. He was mildly shocked when Tom reached out and forced his gaze back with strong fingers. “Tell me who hurt you, little boy.”
“Shut the fuck up.” There was a hard edge to his own voice as he sat up and shoved Tom’s questing fingers away. He shook his head immediately after, not wanting to see the smug glint in green-gold eyes, not wanting to hear the answer. “We don’t do this,” he said, staring at the wound in Tom’s shoulder that bore the shape of his own mouth. He swallowed against the bile burning and climbing in his throat. “I don’t wanna know you.”
Ironically, perversely, he thought of Whitney. Of his sister wasting away behind the sterile white walls of a mental hospital, her mind forever frozen on the moment a mass-murderer took her away from him.
Whitney might have lived through Jason Voorhees’ final attack, but Clay was the only survivor.
“Let me take care of you, Clay,” Tom murmured, pressing his lips along the edge of Clay’s jaw. His fingers played with the short hairs dusting Clay’s balls. “I’m here.”
Hadn’t he said the same thing? To Whitney, when she no longer recognized his voice. To Mom, before he’d finally gotten fed up. Fed up, and ran far away like the scared little boy Tom was accusing him of being. Fed up with wanting to help, and needing not to.
Clay ground his teeth and fed Tom his dick, instead.
xxx
He got the phone call a week later. Apologies, quiet voices laced with sympathy and dread. She’d taken a razor blade, they said. Stole it from a nurse’s station while no one was looking. It was nobody’s fault. It was a tragedy, an accident. Catatonic, they’d thought, and it shouldn’t have ever been possible.
But it had been. And there was so much blood, and so little necessary to finish the job. Whitney had succeeded where Jason had failed, and Clay was the fucking punchline.
xxx
He didn’t even know Tom’s last name. He didn’t know how or why , and it probably didn’t much matter. Whatever the reason, Tom was there. He listened to everything Clay would never say; he he let Clay shove him up against the wall, growl obsenities into his skin and handle him like a fucking sociopath.
Tonight, though, he got into it, too. Wild-eyed and bristling, begging for Clay’s dick while drawing blood with his teeth. Clay hated the part of himself that came to life then, that flight-or-fight response buried deep-down and suppressed with memories and names and faces. Poor, doomed bastards.
“Fuck me,” Tom groaned, bent over the mattress with legs spread wide and sweat slicking the way. Clay grit his teeth and got a hand around his cock. Sank inch-by-inch into tight, clenching heat. He didn’t wait for Tom to adjust, for that shaky nod of assent. He pulled back and dove back in, reaching up and wrapping a hand around Tom’s neck.
“You’re sick,” he said, to himself more than anything. Tom felt so good around his dick. “You fucking love this.”
“Love you,” Tom spat into the sheets, or maybe Clay was only hearing what he wanted to hear. What he needed to delve even deeper into his own destruction. Tom’s cheeks held a glossy pink; eyes heavy-lidded and dangerous. “Tell me what you want, Clay.”
“I wanna fuck your ass until you scream,” Clay said, unthinking, the truth spilling out like bile. “I want my sister back. I want everyone to pay. I want…”
“Done,” Tom whispered, and he came, squirming on Clay’s dick.
His own orgasm was a bitter roil deep in his belly, edged with salt and tears.
xxx
He heard the sirens long after midnight. Blue and red streaks of light past the curtains, wailing in the night that had him sitting up in bed and rubbing bleary eyes. He hadn’t showered after that last time and he smelled of come and sweat and cheap cologne. Tom.
Tom, who wasn’t there.
The doorbell rang, and Clay blinked. There was really only one person it could be.
“No more running,” Tom said as he opened the door, and Clay stared at the rusty streaks on the other man’s face. Hands. Smearing his clothing, the smell of copper and fear. Sterile white walls.
“What did you do?” Clay said, a sickening rock-and-roll in his stomach as Tom’s fingers crept along his naked spine. “Oh, Jesus, Tom…”
Tom only pressed his mouth where his fingers had been. Clay jerked away, tried to make sense of slowly dawning realization. It was difficult with the familiar stroking, teasing. Comfort.
The sirens faded away as Tom’s lips closed over his own.
“I’m here, little boy,” Tom said, whispered, stroking Clay’s hair and pulling back to stare with those green-gold, sinful eyes. “Let me take care of you.”
The end.