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“Yeah, feel free to keep talkin’.”
Smiity’s breath lies stagnant, hitched in his throat as he desperately, silently, walks away.
“It’s no big deal.”
And he hates it, how much John’s casual drawl lilts up into a sick amusement, a silver tongue carving out his own experience in a sick delight. It was terrifying.
“We’re friends, right?”
The grin he was clearly wearing is so evident in his voice he can almost taste it in the air.
Smiity grits his teeth.
He eyes his path, keeping a keen eye for anything with the possibility of making noise, before slowing and making his way to a nearby cluster of cornfield, one of the few dotted around the map. He can hear the slow thumps of John’s eldritch form from a distance, the beat of it paling in comparison to the stutter of his heart in his ears, in his hands. It was all he could do to pray the sound didn’t breach his own skin and travel through the crisp air surrounding him. A shaking hand clamps his mouth as he attempts to silence his own shallow breathing.
Smiity just didn’t do horror. He’s loud, he’s laughing, he’s yelling at someone and he’s messing with someone else. He takes the leading role. None of these are things he physically can do when he’s running and hiding in the horror games he’s subjected to each Halloween; when he’s scared.
And god is he scared.
His eyes dart around, trying to catch a glimpse of one of the other ‘survivors’ of this round. Matt had bumped into him before he was noticed in the old and rotting barn house, looking for tires and batteries. John found him afterwards, jumpscared by a jack-in-the-box and masking a scream of terror with a bitten back, “FUCK!”.
He catches a brief sight of a light in a distant patch of trees, and hopes they’re having better luck than him in terms of survival as he desperately blends into the darkness and silence around him in both sight and sound.
..
The silence around him.
He can’t hear John anymore, and despite the relief that would have flooded his senses in another circumstance, dread settles into his gut as familiarly as his own blood with the absence of his friend. His enemy? The hunter.
Because it’s John. And John is smart, and convincing, and terrifying when he wants to be. Where he does not brute force his victory, he weaves a peaceless win with his tongue and his voice. He could ask for anything, command anything.
He could talk even the most resolutely devoted of priests into kneeling to a false idol, Smiity thinks. Maybe that’s why he’s playing this game, because John had asked him to.
At the very least, he finds his dread rightfully placed as he catches the sight of John’s looming figure slinking around the area. He’s looking up though, ahead of himself, and Smiity is crouching in his place among the small cornfield. Even as John starts to approach his hiding space, creeps closer. His hand tightens.
Suddenly, John’s knee (if it can even be called that in this form) knocks against his shoulder and Smiity’s eyes widen in horror in time with his hand falling from his mouth; it’s useless, now, as John slowly lowers his head to look at the obstruction in his path.
“What the-? Hey.” He murmurs, unnatural mouth twitching up at the unnatural corners.
“.. Fuck.”
Smiity answers, breathes, with a wobble to his voice John can’t recall ever hearing. A genuine fear painting his vocal chords and lighting a weak flame in his dark eyes. He remains crouching and, even if subconsciously, begins to stumble backwards. John suddenly wants to delay killing Smiity, if only to see more of this new side of him that he hasn’t been privy to before. Smiity just isn’t scared, a fact he had grown to understand and to learn the dynamics of the group they play with. He’s used to him being demanding and loud. Perhaps this is why he doesn’t play horror games.
“Yeah? You been hidin’ here, from me, all this time?” John’s sharpened arms moving towards him and unceasing his backwards motion with them digging into the sides of Smiity’s abdomen. Smiity can’t decide if it’s a threat or a promise.
He keeps quiet, hot and panicked breath escaping into the air differing to its prior entrapment behind his hand before gathering his remaining confidence and bravado and laughing nervously,
“C’mon John, you can let- let me go yeah? Matt’s over there- or maybe Puffer, I saw a flashlight over there, I can take you to him-“ he rambles, voice shaky and pitchy.
John puts more pressure on Smiity’s sides, breaking skin and sinking in. The gashes overwhelm his senses in a way that makes him wish John would finish the job.
“No. I mean,” John drawls, gravelly voice sounding almost bored as Smiity drew in a sharp breath in pain, “I only really wanted to kill you. So,”. His head tilts to the side, and Smiity imagines he’d have that lazy smirk, eyes tired and pinned on him had he been human in this moment. Deliberately slowly, John forces his claws further into Smiitys sides and uses the pierced grips to lift Smiity up. Gravity battles the upwards force, and the claws are forced upwards against his flesh with it, creating twinning torturing incisions vertically along his sides. The feeling of the razor-sharp perpetrators slicing through the subcutaneous- the fat, the flesh and further inside his skin was surrounding. Unbearable.
He wouldn’t be surprised if the claws hit his stomach, and the edge of his liver with the depth they were underneath his skin. The pain welded into one scorching, excruciating blanket. He cries out, a strangled scream as he’s lifted up to John’s level, and coats his face in the molten sensations of the needlelike knives in his mouth piercing his face, mutilating the skin just above his eyes and splitting his lip gruesomely before he remembers his flashlight. In a moment of pure adrenaline quelling the onslaught of white-hot pain he brings the flashlight up to John’s white glazed eyes, burning the retinas as he holds the bluelight forcefully against them.
John groans, the monster’s natural vocal chords mixing with his own human voice for a moment as he drops Smiity and stumbles back.
Smiity bolts, adrenaline still coursing, to the farmhouse, blood soaking his shirt and seeping into his dark hair as it pours down his face- a visceral gory reimagining of a face caught in a downpour of rain. He frantically wipes it from his eyes, coating his hands in the crimson liquid as he stumbles in panic to the house.
He imagines he must be quite the sight.
The path to the farmhouse is quickly abandoned, too predictable for John to catch up to him, and his deviance leads him to Yumi hidden around their escape car.
The pain hits him then, slumping against a wall and using his minimal knowledge of basic first aid through frantically pressing his hands to the gashes in his sides. They cling like a noose to a neck, dependent and desperate and frantic. He notices the forest floor beneath him covered in his blood, shining proudly in the looming presence of the moon through a window. His head throbs, dizziness placing lethargy in his movements.
Yumi whistles, “Damn. How’re you even alive right now?”
“Dude, fuck if I know. You got any tires?”
Yumi still eyes him with a strange mixture of impressed and concerned and quickly turns to tear off a part of his shirt. Smiity worries that the tearing might be too loud.
“Here. Wrap it around that nasty ass shit.”-he passes over the fabric, and it taints with the blood from Smiity’s hands before it reaches his head-“We have three, missing one. I’ve got the key though.”
“Oh shit,” Smiity realises “I’ve got the last tire then, I think we can leave now, just gotta wait for the others.”
They’re stage-whispering, voices hushed but still too loud, however they both scramble for the nearest bush and fall silent as a new intruder makes himself known.
“Where’d you go, Smiity?”
Smiity’s heart pounds.
“Just be honest with me.”
They hold their breaths and shrink into themselves in a bush to the side of the car. A muffled snicker can be heard from a few bushes to the left of Smiity, and he recognises the muffled laughs of his other friends, recovering his composure as he realises John is outnumbered- that they have a guaranteed win.
Beats of silence pass with John prowling the car before Smiity builds his bravado back up and asks, “Wait, is everyone here?”
A burst of laughter from what he could recognise as Puffer and an exclamation of “YEAH!” leads him to fall back into the usual group dynamic role of the lead with a yell of “JUST GO TO THE CAR HE CAN'T GET ALL OF US!”
And they leave, laughing and yelling and full of adrenaline and driving very irresponsibly.
They spawn back in the campsite lobby, still loud and full of laughter and familiar. He notices, vaguely, he is no longer covered in blood, and that his wounds are no more than semi-healed scars; noticeable, manageable. Puffer is yelling intelligibly about the humour of the situation to Matt- “We were all just laughing!” and Matt is wheezing with laughter along with him. Yumi snatches his shirt fabric back off of Smiity’s head, lacking actual malice and instead laughing along with the others. Smiity chuckles along, the contagion of their joy not lost upon him, and then looks off to the side, towards the presence he could feel to the side of the group and his eyes catch on John’s, thick on himself. With one eyebrow cocked, he was smiling along with the rest of the group, eyes running appreciatively over the scars remaining on Smiity’s face.
His gaze radiates an self-satisfied pride, and Smiity rolls his eyes at his arrogance, despite the heat rising to his face under the attention. John laughs as hewalks closer, “Did I hurt you, Smit?” he asks slyly, eyeing the scars left behind, and then flicking to Smiity’s own eyes.
“Shut up dude,” he grumbles, “What the fuck was I meant to do when all I had was a god damn flashlight? This game should give the Survivors weapons.”
Matt stumbles into them, yelling far too loud in a voice they all still couldn’t figure out how he did. (How did he bass boost his own voice?)
“YEAH! GIVE THE SURVIVORS WEAPONS! GIVE US GUNS!”
Smiity bursts out laughing at him, and they all don’t stop laughing for hours, it feels like.
The moon is still high in the sky as they retreat to the cabins the lobby provided for rest between rounds. The laughter long since died down significantly, and Matt has firmly fallen asleep on Puffer and is most likely drooling on his shirt. (Puffer does not look happy about it.) Smiity slowly pads over to the cabin, and walks to one of the twin beds after splashing his scarred face with water. Belatedly, he realises he’s sharing a room with John, and most likely will face more teasing the remaining proof of the earlier encounter scrawled upon his face, or maybe the fact he was caught at all.
He’s stretching out the sore muscles of his arms above his head when he hears the door to the cabin creak open, footsteps into the room and then the door clicking closed behind them. He recognises them as Johns, not only from the fact they’re rooming together, but the familiar sound after almost a decade of knowing him.
“Hi John.” he murmurs, cutting off with a yawn.
“Hey.”
His voice sounds off, Smiity notes, a little curious with an ultimate undertone of smugness. He huffs.
“I get it, you got me, you’re gloating and you’re holding it over my head. You’re so predictable, J-“
“You were afraid.”
Smiity’s head whips around, eyes wide, “Huh?”
John’s standing there, hands in his pockets and shoulder leant against the wall. His mouth is quirked up as he speaks and his eyes, lidded as they usually are, dart from the scars on his face, to his eyes. The movement is quickly becoming familiar.
“You were,” he grins, “So scared. Of me.”
Smiity sputters, and John watches, intruiged, as he mentally scrambles for words, “I mean- yeah obviously, you’re a giant fucking eldritch horror trying to kill me-,” he laughs exasperatedly, “I’m pretty sure that’s normal? You’re being an idiot, John.”
John tilts his head slightly, still grinning, and Smiity is hauntingly reminded of the monster he was. “Yeah, sure, for the others. You looked so different, You were genuinely scared. I’ve never seen you like that before.” he begins walking closer, slowly, dawdling.
“You’re always so loud and demanding and in charge. Running the group in the game. You’re always joking around,” he laughs. Smiity doesn’t feel comforted by it. Oddly enough, he isn’t unsettled, either. “making the situations funny.”
He stops, leaving a gap between them but standing close enough Smiity had to tilt his head up minutely with the inch-or-two height difference.
“Is it only when there’s a group that you’re brave? You were alone with me. And then? You were terrified.”
His voice is lower now, and quieter. Somehow it is more intense this way.
“Would you have been scared if it was Matt, or Puffer? Yumi? Or is it just me?”
John leans forwards, closer to Smiity’s stunned face.
“Do I scare you, Smit?”
The air seems to lie stagnant between them, neither moving or making any further noise, save for soft breathing. John searches his face with his eyes, looking for reaction, for emotion, for a break in the facade. It is evident he finds whatever it is he’s looking for, as John huffs a relieved sigh, and smiles.
“No.” Smiity breathes.
John does not believe him.
“I like it when you’re scared.” he says, fingers reaching up to twirl around the dark wispy curls at Smiity’s nape, eyes following where they travel, “maybe that’s messed up. I don’t think it’s surprising that I am though. Messed up, I mean.” His eyes snapped back to Smiity’s, looking through his lashes.
“You look so good when you’re scared.”
Smiity’s voice fails him, breath caught in his throat. So it is a sexual thing for John. (too). He was wondering what this was about, John hadn’t ever taken simple teasing this far before. Vaguely wondering, however, because it’s a little difficult focusing on much else at the moment.
“It feels like you’re beneath me,” John shrugs, “I don’t know. I love it though.”
John pauses the hand that’s playing with his hair.
“Do I scare you, Smit?”
Smiity releases a breath he can’t remember holding, “..Yeah. Sometimes, yeah.”
John’s eyes gleam. He slides his fingers further into the back of Smiity’s hair and laughs breathlessly. He backs him up until Smiity feels his legs hit the bed. “I do?”
Smiity sighs, again. “I just said-“
“I want to hear you say it again.”
Smiity’s face heats up. It’s the way that John so shamelessly indulges himself in this- in Smiity. He lets out a shaky breath and John curls his fingers further into his hair as he eyes him expectantly, arousal coating his features.
“You do.”
“I want you to say it.”
“You’re terrifying, John.”
John leans forward, tilting Smiity’s head and catching him in a heated kiss. The hand that was lazily playing with his hair tightens and Smiity groans against his mouth. They slot together perfectly, it feels like, and Smiity’s sure he loses himself in the sensation of his best friend against him. John bites at his lip- right on the scar left from the wound he caused, reopens it and the blood slowly spills down their connected lips, their chins. Smiity opens his mouth, and John mingles their tongues together. It tastes metallic and he vaguely hears himself make an embarrassing noise.
Smiity’s hands are clasped to John’s shirt collar as John resumes biting at his lip. His attention suddenly snaps to the lack of real pressure behind the bite and the sharpness of John’s canines that nip gently; this could really hurt him if John wanted to hurt him. His breath hitches in his throat and he groans softly at the thought.
John pulls back at the sound, if only to see Smiity’s face, and his eyes zero in on his expression, mouth tugging into a smirk. “Yeah, I like that you’re getting off to this, too.”
He leant down and started kissing down his jaw, to his neck, biting. “How do I scare you, Smiity?”
Smiity moans and grips onto the longer strands of John’s mullet for a semblance of stability.
“You- ah, your words. And- fuck- your voice, John.”
John is definitely leaving marks. There’s a dull ache to the trailing path of John’s mouth on his neck and collar bone that decides it for him, and just as he notes this, John's teeth break his skin and blood escapes his skin once more.
“What about it?” he mutters against his neck. Smiity whines.
“It’s- you’re-.. John- When you were hunting me, your voice it was, How can you go from casual to this manipulative, this convincing.. I think that I’d do anything, if you asked me like that. That scares me.”
John bites the underside of his jawline, hard. Smiity moans a strangled cry.
“Oh.” he breathes, “I get it now. It’s the control, right?”
His teeth scrape along his skin. Smiity groans.
“You’re scared that I have the control in those moments. Over you, and I’m not even forcing it. You’re afraid because you’ve put this into my hands willingly.”
Smiity shivers at the wording, and the realisation. He had given it willingly hadn’t he? But, John doesn’t use brute force to take victory, to take control, he knows this. He has his voice sewn into his mind and all John would have to do was grasp and tug a few strings in the right direction to unravel Smiity. And he knows he can, too. He feels the grin against his neck; “I could bend you to my every whim if I wanted to. And, I think I want to.”
Smiity gasps at another harsh bite placed along his neck, and John reconnects his lips to Smiity’s before rolling his hips languidly, grinding filthily against his clothed and already half hard length. It’s doing something to him, the noticeable hardness he feels from John, too.
“John.” he whines against the older man’s lips, and John pulls back with a grin.
“You should say my name like that more often, much better than when you’re yelling it for something or other.”, he laughs.
Smiity’s hips snap forward, meeting John’s halfway in their slightly-awkward frottage and they both let out simultaneous groans, Smiity’s head lolling onto John’s shoulder. John moves his free hand- the one not tangling and tugging on his hair- to his hip for leverage and continuing the grind of his hips against Smiity.
John tugs his hair in a way that borders on painful, and Smiity lets out a strained sound, causing John to pull tighter in response, leaving him moaning needily into John’s ear.
“Get on your knees, Smit.” he speaks lowly, commands, and Smiity is a weak man in this moment.
He hums his compliance, nodding against John’s shoulder and lifting his head up. His and John’s eyes meet in a moment of blazing heat between the two of them and, upon his accidental hesitation, John places a hand on his shoulder and pushes. It’s not enough to force him down if he stood his ground, but Smiity lowers himself onto his knees willingly.
John, with his eyes still pinned on Smiity’s, raving over his knelt form, reaches down to undo the button and zip of his pants. Smiity doesn’t dare break eye contact as John pulls himself out of his boxers, and slides both them and his pants down an inch, however, John moves his hand to the top of his head, tilting it down to force Smiity’s eyes to snap to his cock. It’s flushed, and hard, and beaded with precum at the tip. Smiity takes a shaky breath.
John’s hands once again find home in the back of Smiity’s hair and John pushes his head slightly. “Take it.”
Heat pools in his gut at the command. It takes the same home as the dread he felt earlier. He thinks it’s ironic they were both caused by John.
Tentatively, he mouths the head of John’s cock, placing his lips around it and slowly, slowly takes an inch, and then another, into his mouth. John huffs out a heavy breath before moving his hand back to his head and gently playing with the hairs at the nape. It’s sweet. Deceptively sweet, Smiity concludes, because it’s John.
He is right.
John suddenly curls his hand into a tight fist, and pushes Smiity harshly down the length. It was so sudden, despite his expectation of John to do something. He instinctively lurches backwards, only to be stopped by John's hold on him. Then his heart lurches, because John is holding him down on his cock. He chokes, hands spasming where they previously lay still in his lap. His eyes widen and shoot up to meet John’s.
John watches Smiity as he struggles to retain his ability to breathe, and his dick twitches against the latter’s throat at the display. Their eyes meet with Smiity scrambling for a semblance of stability as he’s thrown off guard. Isn’t it so funny that it causes him to look at John? “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. He pulled Smiity back, having the courtesy of letting the kneeling man actually answer the question. Smiity heaves in a gulp of air, ragged and disheveled. “No.” he keens, voice breaking in the middle of the syllable. John’s heart pounds blood through his ears, his twitching hands, and down, down, down-
And then Smiity’s moving forwards to take inches into his own mouth- willingly- and John simultaneously thrusts his hips forwards and pushes Smiity down and buries himself to the hilt in his convulsing throat. Smiity can feel it throb in his mouth.
John groans, “God, Smiity-“ He begins fucking his throat in earnest, pushing Smiity down until his nose hit the wiry hairs of his happy trail each time, “I didn’t expect this from you.” He laughs breathlessly, more of a cruel chuckle. “Who would’ve known, that you’d let me use you like this?”, he continues, ignoring as Smiity scrambles for purchase on his thighs on each thrust, his throat burning with the fiery, scorching taste of John. “You’re- fuck, Smit- I mean, of course I wanted to. To knock you down a peg or two, show you your place-“ kindly punctuated by a sharp thrust, holding Smiity at the base through his following words, “To get rid of that cocky attitude you always have.”
He resumes his thrusts, cruel and sharp, and Smiity is choking, has been choking the entire time. His head is burning with a delicious pain from the grip John has in his hair pairing with the overwhelming sensation of his throat being fucked in a dangerous combination, making his eyes roll back under his fluttering eyelids. John is getting closer, he can tell, his thrusts are becoming more erratic and haphazard.
John moans as he reaches with his other hand, the one not in his hair, to join the other in the back of his hair as he thrusts one last time, holding Smiity at the base as he spills down his throat. He grinds in small thrusts as Smiity’s throat spasms in perfect stimulating friction.
Eventually, John's hands fall limp at his sides and Smiity lurches back, coughing and gagging into his closed fist with spit and cum landing on his hand, before stumbling to his feet and shouldering past John to stagger to their shared bathroom and spluttering into the sink.
He can hear John laughing, albeit breathlessly in the bedroom. “Fuck you, John.” he rasps, and he startles at his own voice, scratchy and hoarse at the fault of the former. He only manages those words before cutting off into another fit of coughs before he hears John enter the bathroom behind him. “I mean I did just technically fuck you. Or, your throat I guess.”
John stays in the doorway as Smiity continues to attempt to regain the stability of his lungs and soothe his abused throat with the water running from the tap. “Shut up-“ Bad idea. Still coughing.
Slowly, John moves closer and rests a hand on his waist. Smiity becomes very aware that he is still very hard, and that this is evident in the visible bulge in his pants. As his spluttering subsides he stays breathing heavy over the sink, face heating up over John’s traveling fingers.
“Do you want help with this?,” he murmurs against his ear, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband. Smiity lets out a shaky breath and nods softly. He lets his head drop forward, curls falling around his face with his arms braced on the sink. If he knows anything about John, he’s probably going to need the grounding hold in around a few minutes. John winds his other arm around Smiity’s waist as his hand finally takes a hold of his aching length and pulls him out of his pants.
Smiity hisses out a breath at the friction, the contact, finally. He sets a slow pace, almost agonisingly so and the slow drag of John’s calloused hand pumping him with the slick of his own precum leaves him reeling. A bead of precum rolls down John’s fingers as they move and the combination of these visual and tactile sensations causes Smiity to whimper out increasingly embarrassing, soft noises. Before long, he’s whining out a mumbled plea.
“Yeah?” John prompts, his eyes burning holes into Smiity’s face as he forces contact, hand suddenly gripping onto Smiity’s jaw and tilting it to look at himself in the mirror above the sink. He can’t defy it even if he wants to. “John. Stop- .. Stop teasing me.”, he grits out, eyes subconsciously slipping shut.
John tuts, disapprovingly, and his fingers suddenly double down on the pressure they had on Smiity’s jaw, pressing in painfully and causing Smiity’s eyes to shoot open and relocate John’s in the mirror. He drawls, “At least ask nicely.”
Smiity grumbles, and with the bruised ego of a man who has been thoroughly humiliated, resolves to withstand the pleasurable torture as long as he possibly can. John, the wicked bastard, changes his methods and moving his fingers in a tight pulsing ring over the head, before pumping the length of it and repeating. Retaining the same slow speed. Smiity groans, muscles tensing and untensing at each bolt of liquid hot pleasure shooting down his spine. It’s simultaneously way too much and not nearly enough, overwhelming and disappointing and Smiity’s not sure he can handle this for much longer, this desire for release with no means of reaching it unless he gives up and just-
“Please.”
John sucks in a breath, eyes reverent and relishing in Smiity’s complete and utter lack of dominance, of control. “Okay.” he breathes, because it’s all John thinks he can do at the moment. Smiity is beneath him, he’s writhing, he’s asking. He’s begging. For a release that John can give him, that only John can give him.
Instead of speeding up as Smiity was hoping for, John manhandles him to turn around, facing himself. Before Smiity can even process it, John’s pulling himself out of his pants and wrapping a hand around them both. He’s already hard again, and it sends a thrill down Smiity’s spine to realise how much John was getting off to this.
John grinds his hips forward, moving his hand at the same time and the stimulation it throws onto Smiity after so much denial is heavenly. He’s in the place of the priest, but John is not God, they’re something far more subversive than that. Something unorthodox, and unsightly. Otherworldly, transcendental.
If John is Smiity’s personal false idol, he does not think he minds.
“John.” Smiity whines, voice wobbling in devotion. His trembling arms do little to keep him stable in his place leant against the sink, but John is gripping his hips so hard that he worries not of bruises, but instead is reassured from falling. John is groaning, too, heavy breathing often being interrupted by inconsistent moans or strained renditions of Smiity’s name. They’re both hurtling to their climaxes at an alarming speed.
Smiity feels his muscles tense, and with the arching of his back and a full body shudder, he keens John’s name a last time before he’s spilling over his fingers. He’s panting, voice breaking with occasional broken whines as John continues to chase his own peak, overstimulation clouding his mind. He slumps in posture, leaning against the sink and lolling his head forward and feeling his own hot breath on his chest.
Suddenly, John moans lowly, his name, as he too spills over his own fingers. It lands partially on Smiity’s lower abdomen and John huffs out a broken groan at the sight. They stand there, panting and catching their breath, until Smiity speaks up with a still-raspy voice, “You’re such a freak, John.”
John laughs, and tilts up Smiity’s head by a finger under his chin. His muscles are too weak to protest anyways, “Don’t think I’m the only one though, Smit. Still having a boner after I fucked your throat? Sounds freaky to me, sounds like you liked it.”
Smiity scoffs, “Whatever, dude.” before moving to grab some toilet roll to clean the spend left as proof on the two men.
Despite himself, despite the situation, despite how messed up they are, he smiles.