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[otherbitches]

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Billy Hargrove, 20

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cw: woundfucking

[unconscionable]

If it wants loneliness it can find its twin in John, who holds a vast metaphysical emptiness. There was a time he had taken so much of the Earth's soul into him, had eaten the death of the sun itself, spat out the leftovers and called her Alecto. All that's left of her now is that carved out vastness, the sparse remnants of power he kept for himself — and the warped vestiges that have become his own monster, a corrupted tendency to growth, to flourishing, a loamy smell like a deep forest that is thick in the air as Billy's hands close cold around his throat.

What Billy learns in that space isn't about the woman-thing that used to fill it, though there's names on his tongue when John bites down on it. Annabel Lee, Alecto, Gaia, Papatūānuku, Earth, Earth, Mother Earth. No, he seeks John's worst loneliness and he finds—

John, standing in a room. There is the feeling that it once held warmth and camaraderie, that maybe long ago champagne glasses clinked in celebration, and there was the pleasant buzz of sharing a workspace with someone else. Varnished floors, blossoming frescoes of flowers and birds. Canaan House was where the project started, and where the worst days of the pre-Apocalypse made a cult out of them all, and then they started the Nine Houses from here; working and studying; killing each other to become lyctors. YOU LIED TO US is written in big black dried-blood letters across the pretty murals, ruining the golden clouds and the purple sprays of jacaranda. YOU LIED TO US. The room is mostly empty, what furniture and items there are have been moldering in place for ten thousand years. YOU LIED TO US. Another lyctor lost, another friend. He turns and walks from the room.

John — the real John, the one trying to make himself more fuckable than killable, gives that one up willingly, welcomes the joining even as he's fumbling Billy's cock out, giving him something to fuck into, some opening low on his abdomen that's just as sweet and warm as any cunt. A hole is a hole, he learnt that from Danny (the mindflayer can have that one too, if he wants it, John's cum white across the blushing pink of Danny Johnson's guts.)

cw: woundfucking, licking, refs to domestic abuse and abandonment

[otherbitches]

The flayer purrs, laps it up, wants to slide its tongue from the slit of the memory's wound, over the entrails, wants to lap up spend from writhing human wiring. It settles for settling in deeper, rubbing its cheek against John's, turning and licking a wet slimy stripe over beard and against skin.

Billy rails, makes the creature's shoulders jump, twitch, his fingers pulsing against the pretty pillar of John's throat. He doesn't feel like he has any control, less so as alien memories rocket against him. The flayer touches them all, the mental equivalent of a brush of lips, the lingering brush of categorizing claws. YOU LIED TO US. In response, it coos, it soothes, let it eat it up, it asks, as John's fingers sink its cock into a hole made for it, as its hips pivot down, ass against John's dick as his own squelches through John's heat and Billy's mouth opens, a heavy humid gasp.

It sinks in deeper, the flayer's touch clawing and searching for morsels, Billy's soft hands batting up against the shreds it leaves behind. The deeper it slinks, the colder he gets, cold like a warehouse, cold like the metal stairs that dug into his stomach as he was dragged down, cold like wet meaty slop ooing-gooing into his pores, his mouth. It's cold like a hand on his throat, not unlike John's was, but it's not John's hand. There's a face mirroring him, blue eyes like his, crew cut, and Billy hates him, it's cold— it's cold like cheap Maybelline, matched to cover bruises he'd eventually come to own. It's cold like the sound of the dial tone to a number that stops connecting.

The memories flutter and pulse against John's, aching and hungry. Hips roll, pulse thundering, body gasping against John's mouth.

"ᴛⷮaͣlᴋⷦ ᴛⷮoͦ mͫeͤ"