Leave me things or request a starter ★ Slow Tagging ★ I'm bad at sexting ★ Picture Prompt Generators: m/m or f/m ★ kink list but tbh just ask ★ potential tw: underage, drugs, childhood trauma, mental illness, please warn in subject headers ★ in-game/AU continuity optional
[janus has punched a lot of people in the face in their lifetime, so they're fairly certain that cillian's lips are puffier now than they were before. round and pink, shaping thickly around the words as he talks. janus stares. under the circumstances, it doesn't feel rude to do so.] All right, [they say. they aren't sure if the distortion is in their voice or in their ears, with the tribal drum accompaniment of their pulse.
they slide their hand a little deeper into cillian's hair. scissor the slick strands of it for a moment, rubbing it between their knuckles.
and then they yank. it's a strange thing -- to have the right to handle someone roughly, to have that freedom with their body, that it's given to them and not something taken with terror. strange isn't bad. nor is cillian's mouth, when janus fucks into it, trying to hollow out the slick cup of the back of cillian's throat with the thrusts, like they might feel out the details of small veins and ridges with the fleshy pink head of their dick.
[ it's just as good to let go. maybe it's that catholic upbringing, but cillian loves to feel slutty, feel used, turned on even by the fresh flush of shame that is marking the broad wings of his cheekbones just as much as the occasional choking sensation. he's salivating hard, unable to properly swallow it despite how his throats spasms to try, and it makes everything messy when it spills out of the corners of his mouth instead, janus' cock making thick wet noises because of it.
cillian makes his own wet noise, something raw, knees slipping a little wider on the tile so he can brace himself better against the thrusts that shudder through his own body. he wants to jerk off, can feel the pressure of his own hard-on like a necessity, but he knows — from experience — that doing so would detract something from the moment.
better to be wholly in this facefucking, aware of his teeth, the shape of his soft palate and tonsils, the hitch of his gag reflex when it's bluntly rubbed, the burning of his lungs as they try to get enough oxygen without just breathing in spit and dick. ]
[it's not hard to figure out the rules. hard— no pun intended. :) ;) hunting and killing has nothing to do with what people want, but it has everything to do with what people are going to do. to murder people with any kind of regularity, you have to be able to see better than a normal man. and that turns out to be—
--not so different, to watching cillian choke a little, near-tears spending themselves with desperation that looks a little sweet across his eyelashes. the shuffle of his knees on the disgusting bathroom floor, and janus only has to lean a few degrees to the right to see the egregious bulge of erection past the gathering slick of saliva down cillian's jaw and the cock-tent of his cheek. when you kill people, sometimes you have to keep them quiet. so maybe
maybe the time for maybes is over.
janus' dick comes out of cillian's mouth sudden as spit. they seize the man by his arm, tight enough that he can feel the pinch of fingers against the bones in his upper-arm. and yanks him, sudden enough that the rubber soles of cillian's shoes squeak on the tile. there's a clumsy instant of confusion where they don't— know if they should push his face into the dingy wall or back him into it. in the end, they do the latter, partly because they don't want him to start fucking screaming in terror they could flag ahead of time, looking at his face, and partly a little bit maybe!! to show off that they're strong.
they hoist him up on the toilet tank, which is cold. they pull up his knees with their hand, which are warm. they look at his face. if he screams, they aren't actually— entirely sure what they'll do.]
[ the sharp bite of fingers bruising his arm makes cillian pull a sharp inward breath that just doesn't seem to stop, drawing in and in as he's manhandled upwards. he's gone pale enough that the very barest wide-scattered freckles are left visible, and his pupils are so huge they've swallowed the stormy blue of his eyes. ]
What the fuck.
[ gruff and not particularly emphatic as he grins, face shining with the pleasure of it. he doesn't scream. ]
You're a pushy one, aren't you.
[ he hadn't expected anything more than a mouthful of bleach to come, but now that he's got it, well. no protests here, legs up and all. he mostly seems to be waiting passively for whatever they want to do to him next. ]
[best possible outcome. janus looks at him for a moment, studying the erratic constellation of tiny moles across his nose, the shadows sucked into the hollow spaces under his cheekbones, the punished swelling of his lips. a broken kind of pretty.
lube in a foil packet is in their pocket, separate from their wallet, because girl scouts always come prepared :)x but something about the moment implies to janus that under-prep is better than over- tonight. some things are made for sea air, and some people were made to have the bony peaks of their knees shoved up against their shoulders and a coarse finger shoved between their buttocks. it's odd, a little, how people can vary in their brittle edges and propensity for leather or beaten denim, but still feel so
soft inside. and janus has done this enough, if not exactly in this way, to remember the corkscrew motion, the angle, that they're roughing the skinny boy's body open even if they're being rough with him, listening to the pinch of his breath catching in the folded clinch of his body.]
[ He says, or maybe grunts, an immediate and reflexive response, but then his mind (so effectively distracted by the feeling of fullness and intrusion, strung out on pleasure and humiliation and the need to concentrate on all the good places he's being hurt.) ]
Wait, fuck it, yes.
[ This is transactional enough to parallel sex work even if it's not money they're swapping here, and maybe he should have better boundaries instead of risking all the violin-swell memories of all the other boys he's kissed, or one particular boy he kissed a lot, all the different kinds of kisses and—
Realizing that's confusing, he figures to be proactive and pulls Janus forward, bitten fingernails blunt at the back of their neck, his mouth opening with the same easy softness that it had for their dick earlier. Unlike with the blowjob, he isn't careful with his teeth. ]
[lips, teeth. it's a glorious crush of mouth. they feel the cigarette acridity of his breath mingle with their own, the slick-coarse scrape of his incisors, the scuff of his chin. it's a hot flush of triumph that moves through them, when they feel his body surge up to meet theirs and
they'd had sex out of the context of relationships before-- really, all the sex they've ever had has been deficient of that context. but still, they've never felt like they had the right to treat somebody's body with this rough abandon, finding a home for their tongue and their cock in the wet resistance of another. their fingers scrape and catch on the small gaps between wall tiles. they have to try, to really try not to smile.
and after that, it's a fast, rutting rhythm. sweat seams in between their shoulderblades, the heat of biological friction staving off the chill of the restroom. they paw at his nipples under his shirt, the smear of hair along his skinny thigh. lust coils a fond ache in their gut.
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no subject
they slide their hand a little deeper into cillian's hair. scissor the slick strands of it for a moment, rubbing it between their knuckles.
and then they yank. it's a strange thing -- to have the right to handle someone roughly, to have that freedom with their body, that it's given to them and not something taken with terror. strange isn't bad. nor is cillian's mouth, when janus fucks into it, trying to hollow out the slick cup of the back of cillian's throat with the thrusts, like they might feel out the details of small veins and ridges with the fleshy pink head of their dick.
they make a sound. it's not premeditated.]
no subject
cillian makes his own wet noise, something raw, knees slipping a little wider on the tile so he can brace himself better against the thrusts that shudder through his own body. he wants to jerk off, can feel the pressure of his own hard-on like a necessity, but he knows — from experience — that doing so would detract something from the moment.
better to be wholly in this facefucking, aware of his teeth, the shape of his soft palate and tonsils, the hitch of his gag reflex when it's bluntly rubbed, the burning of his lungs as they try to get enough oxygen without just breathing in spit and dick. ]
no subject
--not so different, to watching cillian choke a little, near-tears spending themselves with desperation that looks a little sweet across his eyelashes. the shuffle of his knees on the disgusting bathroom floor, and janus only has to lean a few degrees to the right to see the egregious bulge of erection past the gathering slick of saliva down cillian's jaw and the cock-tent of his cheek. when you kill people, sometimes you have to keep them quiet. so maybe
maybe the time for maybes is over.
janus' dick comes out of cillian's mouth sudden as spit. they seize the man by his arm, tight enough that he can feel the pinch of fingers against the bones in his upper-arm. and yanks him, sudden enough that the rubber soles of cillian's shoes squeak on the tile. there's a clumsy instant of confusion where they don't— know if they should push his face into the dingy wall or back him into it. in the end, they do the latter, partly because they don't want him to start fucking screaming in terror they could flag ahead of time, looking at his face, and partly a little bit maybe!! to show off that they're strong.
they hoist him up on the toilet tank, which is cold. they pull up his knees with their hand, which are warm. they look at his face. if he screams, they aren't actually— entirely sure what they'll do.]
no subject
What the fuck.
[ gruff and not particularly emphatic as he grins, face shining with the pleasure of it. he doesn't scream. ]
You're a pushy one, aren't you.
[ he hadn't expected anything more than a mouthful of bleach to come, but now that he's got it, well. no protests here, legs up and all. he mostly seems to be waiting passively for whatever they want to do to him next. ]
no subject
lube in a foil packet is in their pocket, separate from their wallet, because girl scouts always come prepared :)x but something about the moment implies to janus that under-prep is better than over- tonight. some things are made for sea air, and some people were made to have the bony peaks of their knees shoved up against their shoulders and a coarse finger shoved between their buttocks. it's odd, a little, how people can vary in their brittle edges and propensity for leather or beaten denim, but still feel so
soft inside. and janus has done this enough, if not exactly in this way, to remember the corkscrew motion, the angle, that they're roughing the skinny boy's body open even if they're being rough with him, listening to the pinch of his breath catching in the folded clinch of his body.]
Do you kiss?
no subject
No,
[ He says, or maybe grunts, an immediate and reflexive response, but then his mind (so effectively distracted by the feeling of fullness and intrusion, strung out on pleasure and humiliation and the need to concentrate on all the good places he's being hurt.) ]
Wait, fuck it, yes.
[ This is transactional enough to parallel sex work even if it's not money they're swapping here, and maybe he should have better boundaries instead of risking all the violin-swell memories of all the other boys he's kissed, or one particular boy he kissed a lot, all the different kinds of kisses and—
Realizing that's confusing, he figures to be proactive and pulls Janus forward, bitten fingernails blunt at the back of their neck, his mouth opening with the same easy softness that it had for their dick earlier. Unlike with the blowjob, he isn't careful with his teeth. ]
no subject
they'd had sex out of the context of relationships before-- really, all the sex they've ever had has been deficient of that context. but still, they've never felt like they had the right to treat somebody's body with this rough abandon, finding a home for their tongue and their cock in the wet resistance of another. their fingers scrape and catch on the small gaps between wall tiles. they have to try, to really try not to smile.
and after that, it's a fast, rutting rhythm. sweat seams in between their shoulderblades, the heat of biological friction staving off the chill of the restroom. they paw at his nipples under his shirt, the smear of hair along his skinny thigh. lust coils a fond ache in their gut.
if life were only this, life would be good.]