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its impossible to look at him during any conversation he's having with his dad and not just see a little kid begging for love and affection, a little kid that just wants to make his father proud, who wants recognition, acknowledgement that he's here, he did it, he matters.
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Do you remember the episode of Spongebob where he's training gary for the snail race and does a coach persona + calls gary a girl and has an aside where he's like "I called you a lady to demean you 🤓" and right after he says that it cuts to sandy and she somehow telepathically feels that Spongebob just did something misogynistic and us like I feel like I need to kick Spongebobs ass for some reason. And then she appears just at the end of the episode to kick his ass.
give your 🫵 favorite child character an unsafe secret with an adult in their life. Give that grizzled old character unresolved rape trauma from years ago that they haven’t really touched. Give that young idealistic character a night they’re desperately outrunning. Give the love interest repressed memories that are going to abruptly start manifesting and cause relationship problems. Make the comic relief character molested. Rape your faves now 💥💥💥
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My advice on concealing come in coffee as a hobbyist chef and unemployed homosexual:
So come can "cook" in very hot liquids, but it depends on the temperature of the coffee. The coffee would have to be hot (100~+ F) when the come is put inside of it for it to solidify into a large mass.
The component of proteins in come is what allows it to solidify when heated. These proteins are present in the seminal/prostate fluid--not just sperms themselves--so even come from a person who does not produce sperm at all would still have this effect.
Come contains both a coagulating protein and a dissolving protein, and it is theorized that water (which is most of what's in a cup of black coffee) will counteract the dissolving protein. This means that the coagulating protein will be left to work on its own, which is what potentially is causing the thickness/stickiness in semen when introduced to temperatures we use to bathe or wash our hands. But unless you are bathing in 100+ F degree water, it won't solidify like "egg whites" as many suggest, it will just be more like a sticky slurry (think cornstarch mixed with water but harder to remove from the skin).
Freshly brewed black coffee's avg temperature starts between 195-200 F. As it slowly cools in ambient temperature in a ceramic mug, most ppl begin to drink it comfortably between 130-160 F. So, without a doubt, the semen will cook in the coffee.
But what can one hypothetically do about this in a story to not make coffee-poached semen?
The seminal/prostate fluid itself is mostly water, mucus, and plasma; due to the proteins, the come will need to be mixed to not be noticed rather than diluting on its own, and to prevent it from sinking to the bottom of the vessel. (Semen is slightly denser than water.)
If the coffee is too hot, then as you said in your post, you will likely get little clumps of come-putty after mixing. And that will be suspicious as fuck of course.
So if you cannot reduce the temperature of the coffee, you'll need to add dairy to disguise the tiny bits of come, but they potentially could be felt in the mouth while drinking. Luckily, blaming this on the dairy being spoiled could prevent being found out, but it doesn't actually fix the problem.
So, how can we prevent the coagulating protein from working once the dissolving protein becomes ineffective, and how can we prevent all proteins from solidifying from heat?
Well, i have an answer for you. But i havent actually done this so i have no idea if it works in practice.
So first i was thinking to try to destroy or prevent the effects of the coagulating proteins before mixing the come and coffee, by neutralizing the pH of both the coffee and come separately before mixing them together. One can do this with sodium hydroxide (lye) or sodium bicarbonate (baking soda). Obviously lye is extremely poisonous, but it does work better at high temperatures so if you could calculate the exact amount of lye needed to not cause harm, it would likely work best as long as its also enough lye to decompose all proteins in the come.
But then i thought, why not add a dissolving protein back in instead?
And i have a feeling that you're going to love what i found out: there are chemicals in the stomach and small intestine that break down dietary proteins (and are not going to cause chemical burns if ingested). So in theory, maybe, your character could thoroughly mix their come with vomit and then mix that into the coffee.
But the chef in me also wants to think about the taste. Seminal fluid contains acids and glucose, and is usually experienced as bitter and salty. To reduce bitterness, you can add acid/salt/fat/sugar, and to reduce salt you can add acid/fat/sugar. And what's acidic? Vomit.
So, in summation: The come will cook in fresh hot coffee. But! If you can neutralize the coagulating protein by breaking it down via stomach acid/bile, then hypothetically, it will mix with the coffee without solidifying. And the acidic quality of the vomit can also potentially have the added effect of reducing the bitterness/saltiness of the come, masking its inclusion in the coffee further.
I hope this helps or was at least entertaining!
I did in fact only see this after publishing my fic but im not even upset bc this was amazing knowledge for you to drop into my inbox thank you so much 🖤
ch. 2/?
explicit; angst; jj maybank x luke maybank; jj maybank x rafe cameron; father/son incest, bedwetting, self harm, child abuse, masturbation, addiction, alcoholism, implied past sexual assault, nonconsensual come drinking, erotic bug bite aftercare, flashbacks, PTSD
read on ao3 | companion playlist
Jack (v.)
A mechanical device, c. late 14c from the masc. name Jack. The proper name was extended to various mechanical appliances which are liable to rough use (1570s, “a machine for turning the spit in roasting meat”); Jack also was used generically in reference to male animals. Related: Jack off (v.) "masturbate" is attested from 1916, probably from jack (n.) in the old slang sense of "(erect) penis."
Yeah, keep fighting, Jackson. I like fighters.
JJ wakes up panting, heart thrashing beneath his ribs. He rubs at his breast bone as he sucks in gasps, one after the other like training his lungs to expand and collapse. It takes him a second to get his bearings, to realize the popcorn ceiling he’s looking at is home, not there. Even after six months back, he’s still got the bends, hasn’t quite coped with being above water. It doesn’t help that the nightmare is still lingering, the memories stuck to his skin like scum on the underside of a boat, a sheen of muck he wants to scrape off with his blunt nails.
It’s a second later JJ takes note of the fact that he’s wet. Drenched, actually, from the waist down, and he doesn’t have to look to determine the cause. Once you know the discomfort of boxers suctioned to skin, you never forget it.
Piss is unmistakably piss, even when it’s gone cold.
JJ has to find a way to make it stop, to fix whatever glitch has him needing to sleep with a plastic mattress cover under his burn-hole-infested sheets. He’s eighteen and wetting the bed. Eighteen and still living at home, thanks to his probation. Eighteen and still in fucking Kildare. It’s everything little Jackson Maybank had sworn wouldn’t be true while covering his bruises with Superman Band-Aids so his teachers wouldn’t see them. It was a plan laid best, JJ figures, a pipe dream he should’ve known better than to hope for since the only way he’s ever made it off this godforsaken island was in handcuffs, and that’s not likely to change. Some things you just have to accept.
Getting out of bed, JJ strips his mattress and balls it all up for later. Dad’ll be awake soon, so he’s got hustle in his movements as he snags clean clothes and sneaks to the bathroom. The idea is to outrun the old man, head out before the hangover’s had a chance to kick in and he can take it out on his kid. It’s funny, how easily JJ fell back into old habits. All it took was one screw up and Luke Maybank made sure he learned his lessons all over again.
Just ‘cause you’re eighteen now, Jay, doesn’t mean you’re not still my kid. As long as you’re under my roof, you do whatever I tell you to do, got it? Is that clear, you little shit, or do you wanna keep asking me stupid goddamn questions? Yeah, you better fucking run! Run away, just like her!
Pulling shut the curtain, JJ turns the water on full blast. The water heater’s a bitch at the best of times, so JJ’s got the knob turned to boil. It makes him feel like a lobster, redskinned and sweaty, but that’s welcome. He wants the heat, the steam, the burn that will wash away the stench of his mistake and make his tan skin new car polished. He’s head down the spray, scrubbing at his skin until his hands are pulsing and angry and he can barely hold a fist. Once his skin’s taut as a bee sting, JJ runs his fingers over the raw, traces the crimson pattern of lines down his thighs and across his stomach. It’s better here, away from the cold, limp-dick-pressure communal showers he endured for eighteen months in Juvenile Detention. There’s nowhere to go but up after that, and at least now he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder, hyper-aware of any body shifted too close. He sort of misses it sometimes, the suffocation of too many boys locked together in too small a room like rats stuck on a ship. By the end, it became a comfort.
There’s too much space out in the real world, too much air and room to roam. The freedom’s just a tease anyway, since JJ’s chained to the island. The cage got bigger, but the door’s still locked.
Popping his rings back on, JJ stands in front of the sink in clean boxers. He shakes the water from his hair, towels at it a little bit in a half-assed attempt to tame it. There’s a guy in the mirror as he lathers shaving cream on his face, all cold blue eyes and crooked teeth. He used to recognize himself, but what he sees doesn’t match. He’s older than he remembers, like he spent the last two years in a coma. Not any taller, but certainly broader, his face hardened in a way that makes him the spitting image of Luke and his muscle mass built up from his daily work outs back at juvie, all that effort that hadn’t done shit to protect him in the end. It doesn’t match, hasn’t matched for a long time, and JJ struggles not to press down the blade in his hand as he shears away at the fuzz dusted across his jaw. Maybe a little paler, a little thinner, and he’ll better resemble the boy lost somewhere in his head, the one that used to make his friends cry with laughter.
The one that used to have friends, period.
The bathroom door kicks inward and JJ flinches, the razor nicking his cheek with how quickly he raises his dukes, twisting around at the waist to face the threat. It’s just Dad pushing into the bathroom barely big enough for one, let alone two, while laughing his son off with a scornful glance. He heads straight to the toilet and unzips his fly, still wearing the clothes he passed out in the night before. JJ’s got the water going, bent over the sink as he rinses off the shaving cream. He turns his head just in time to see Luke pull out his prick and a steady stream burst from the slightly purple head. His father’s holding on with a punishing grip, the veins in his hands popping as if he’s strangling a small animal. JJ imagines the hand shifting, moving up and down until the prick grows thick and full, until it’s big enough to split JJ open. He gags reflexively, feels the weight of it pressing down against his tongue. Be nice, and I’ll make sure you’re off dish duty for a week. Fucking bite me and I’ll rip your jaw clean off. Streaks of milky shaving cream drip from JJ’s face as he watches his father shake himself dry and tuck himself away. It’s a little like betrayal and a lot like relief, like JJ only remembers how to breathe the second the varmint's back in the cage.
“Did you take a shower?”
Pulling back, JJ shuts off the faucet and drags his towel down his face. He’s stalling, his thoughts getting tangled with how quickly he reaches for a lie, but he knows it’s futile. His feet have left damp marks across the linoleum tiles and there’s still steam in the air, filling his ears with heat. A lie will just get him popped in the mouth, but the truth might earn him worse.
“Yeah,” JJ says, his gaze downcast as he folds his towel, hangs it on the rod screwed into the wall. There’s a crack that splits off from the right screw, left from the time Dad ripped the rod from the drywall and chased JJ around the house with it. He can’t remember if the makeshift club ever made contact or not. “I’ve got work in an hour.”
His father squares up, looks from the shower to JJ and back again as if he can secrete the truth from the slick clinging to everything. “You think you’re the only one with a job?” He scoffs, no trace of humor in that icy gaze. He steps forward, right into JJ’s space and JJ can feel it, the bubble before the bursting.
Knowing when a fight’s coming is the only chance you have in surviving it.
“I asked you a question, Jay. You just gonna stand there?”
JJ tastes blood from the effort it takes to hold in his bark. There’s a limit, everyone has one, and the urge to lick along his father’s breaking point is ever present. Once a glutton, always a glutton, and JJ needs to be fat and happy. Needs to prod and push until he gets what he deserves.
“No, sir.” JJ can’t meet Luke’s eyes, can’t see himself made small and distorted in the reflection of those rat-like pupils ringed with red. “But I think there’s hot water le-”
The right hook driven into JJ’s head makes his skull palpate, so he leans into the ringing, letting it ebb across his spine like the bubbling tide. It might as well have been a kiss, a gentle lovetap that promises more to come and he’s still trying to keep up separate from down when Luke shoves him onto the ground. He’s got his belly pressed to the slick tiles, knees digging into the linoleum as his head’s forced down by the back of his neck like a misbehaved mongrel. “What have I told you?” Dad threatens, but JJ’s too focused on breathing. “No consideration. Not a single thought in that fucking head of yours for anyone but yourself. You think just because you’re all grown up that you get to do whatever the fuck you want in my house? I don’t think so.”
JJ’s got the inside of his cheek between his molars, sawing at the meat until he tastes blood. He’s not afraid. He’s not. How could he be afraid when he asked for this?
Dad gets in close, bending over his son until JJ can feel heat on his cheek, smell the hair of the dog that’s got Luke so riled this morning. “Keep fucking up, and I’ll throw your ass out, got it? I don’t care if they haul your ass to prison. Maybe there you’d learn some goddamn discipline."
It’s a quiet shuffle as Luke pushes up from the floor, a small grunt of effort escaping him. He grabs JJ’s clothes both clean and filthy and tosses it all out into the hallway while JJ slowly rises on unsteady legs. Adrenaline zaps through his veins, leaves his chest heaving and his heart thudding against his ribs. He doesn’t say a word as his father pushes him away, slams the door behind him like ending a conversation. All JJ can do is stand there, wide-eyed and gnawing at himself.
He still has to get ready for work.
+
“How about some coffee this time, kid?”
It takes JJ a minute to register the offer and another to shake his head. He’s been well past drunk for … a while now, but as long as he doesn’t make a scene, his money is considered as green as the next guy’s. The bartender trying to sober him up is the owner of the establishment JJ’s been squatting in all night, having come here the second he got off work, and he’s been buddies with Luke since grade school.
Who knew being a Maybank could work in your favor?
“I’ll take a Red Bull,” JJ says, flashing a grin as he pushes himself from where he had been leaning against the bar. He’s hoarding every cent he makes at the Grab‘N Go -- an esteemed position slinging gas, dick pills, cigarettes, and artery-clogging snacks -- that his father doesn’t demand for help with the bills, but man cannot survive on off-brand Hot Pockets and dented, half-priced soda alone. Sometimes, JJ needs a release and since he can’t rely on his friends to fill up his time, he comes to Kildare’s finest dive to drop a couple bucks on cheap beer and conversation. “Tropical if you’ve got it, por favor.”
Butch just glares. He’s kind of fatherly like that and JJ can’t stand it, doesn’t like how it makes his stomach turn inside out. “Great, so I can have a drunk and hyper minor on my property. Tell me again why I let you in here?”
JJ grabs a straw and tears off half the wrapper with his teeth before blowing the other half in Butch’s face so he’ll get rid of that fucking face of his. “Because I’m adorable,” He quips, but it’s too humid to argue, so JJ just smacks a mosquito off his arm before waving his hand in a vague go ahead motion. Bugs have always loved JJ, the little critters taking every opportunity to chew up his well-worn skin. He’s been scratching at himself all day, his legs and forearms dotted with bites.
Rather than watch Butch make him a cup of joe, JJ figures he needs some air. He leaves the comfort of sticky floors and Johnny Paycheck on the jukebox and heads for the punishing swelter of Carolina Spring. Even with the torrential downpour they’ve been getting near daily, it does little to break the heat and JJ’s sticky the second he leaves the bar’s tepid air conditioning. Stepping off the porch, he leans against the streetlight illuminating the gravel parking lot and retrieves the joint he’s had stowed away since the morning. It’s ever possible some bored pig with nothing better to do might catch a whiff on the breeze and cuff him, but so be it. JJ doesn’t know a lot of things, but he’s sure it’s only a matter of time before he’s returned to his cell like the pound puppy he was bred to be. Once you go in, you never really come out, Dad always said. His time on the island might as well just be a vacation from the cold, hard reality of eight-to-ten waiting for him on the horizon. That’s the Maybank way, same with daydrinking and reckless driving. It’s all just sweet before the bitter, and JJ intends to suck as much marrow as he can before he’s shoved in a box again.
Flicking open his Zippo, JJ drags his thumb over the wheel and … nothing. He shakes it, keeps turning the gear, but all his gets is sparks. Whatever good luck JJ might have had goes out the window as he realizes his beloved lighter is all out of juice. Reining in the urge to throw the hunk of metal as far as he can, his gaze catches on movement to his right.
Walking by is some kid, all skinny limbs swallowed by illfitting Goodwill fare. It’s the Pogue uniform, and JJ’s waving the guy over like he’s his only port in the storm. Gravel crunching under his heavy work boots, JJ holds up his joint with one hand and pockets his Zippo with the other. “Hey, you got a light?”
Opiate eyes fix on JJ like a deer in headlights, the kid actually taking a step back as if he didn’t see JJ coming. He seems to zero in, gaze focusing, before finally checking his pockets. A balled up receipt, loose change, even a small plastic straw all fall from the depths of his jeans before he reveals the lighter. His hands are shaking a little as he flicks alight his Bic and holds the flame up, but he’s steady enough that JJ can lean in, cup his hand around the glow. Joint between his teeth, JJ watches the boy as he sparks up, a sense of recognition gnawing at him as he notes the high cheekbones and button nose, the jaggedly cut hair like a buzzcut long since grown out.
“You’re Whippet Cameron, right?” JJ asks, speaking around the joint before sucking in. It’s shit weed, all he’s willing to afford at the moment, but the haze mellows him out a little. He blows his smoke away, but the kid’s got his head down as he pockets his lighter. There’s a nod, and JJ doesn’t miss the way he looks at the joint like a starved kitten, following JJ’s hand as he pulls it to and from his lips. “Sarah’s brother.”
JJ never really knew Sarah, but they had had classes together. From what he could remember, she liked attention and had half the guys in school pussy whipped. Statistically, there’s little doubt much has changed. It’s a small island, so while JJ’s kept to himself ever since his return, he sees traces of his old life everywhere and has spotted the Cameron girl around on more than one occasion, arm and arm with John B of all people. Threads of memories hang around like that, tangled in everything like seaweed. It’s fucking annoying, more than anything, how JJ can’t seem to get away from it.
And it’s certainly not painful at all.
“Rafe,” He corrects, giving JJ a look that strangely stings. It’s a weird turn, how he went from hapless to harmful in just a flash, reminding JJ of Dad in the middle of a Benzo bender. “And I’m not her brother. She’s my sister.”
Drawing his brows together, JJ almost laughs, but thinks better of it. Rafe, whatever kind of name that was, didn’t seem like the type to take jokes well. Instead JJ just nods along and takes another hit, scratching at a mosquito bite on his arm as he does. It’s right below the crease of his elbow, and each pass with his nail sends a flood of relief through his system.
Rafe must catch the movement, despite clearly working on a delayed wavelength, because his gaze fixes itself to JJ’s arm like a blood-sniffing shark. “Oh, I know how to help with that,” He says, and before JJ can stop him those twitchy fingers are reaching for his arm. Stepping closer, he brings JJ’s arm to his mouth and latches his lips over the bite.
There’s a second before the suction, but then it’s there. JJ can feel it, saliva and the warmth of a tongue as Rafe’s got his skin between his teeth, suckling at the bite. Instead of alarm or disgust following the slick sensation, JJ finds himself awed. He can’t help but to stare, his pulse thudding in his ears like rolling thunder as he tries to figure out what dimension this strange boy’s come from.
It only lasts a moment, but JJ still feels the phantom suction as Rafe pulls back, a string of spit holding their connection. It vanishes in the air as Rafe lets the arm drop and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, swollen lips made a rosey pink color that matches the flush under his eyes.
“We’re allergic to mosquito saliva,” Rafe says, reciting the fact like he’d memorized it off a book. “So the bite puffs up and itches as our cells attack the foreign pathogen.” JJ looks down at his forearm, the spot now bright red and dotted with broken blood vessels, an impression of each and every one of Rafe’s teeth visible on his skin, but it doesn’t itch. Instead, he’s left lightheaded, his arm throbbing like all his blood is flowing from his elbow down the rest of his limbs. “I just … sucked out what the mosquito left behind.”
“Isn’t-” JJ tilts his head, looking at Rafe through a squint. He can feel himself smiling, but he’s not sure why. “Isn’t that what you do for snake bites? Suck the venom out?”
JJ can count the seconds it takes Rafe to respond, his eyes glazing over again like some part of him has retreated. “Oh, yeah. Probably,” He says, already turning away. “Wheezie knows more about that stuff than I do.”
He’s gone before JJ can respond or ask who the fuck Wheezie is, shambling down the street like he’s got nowhere better to be. In the Cut, JJ’s pretty sure there isn’t better. All trash rolls downhill, and there’s nowhere lower than here.
+
It’s pushing five A.M. by the time JJ makes it back home. The sky’s a milky indigo, signaling the approaching dawn, and he’s counting fading stars as he walks his bike around back. Despite his willingness to check out early and spare himself the embarrassment of a life in Luke Maybank’s shadow, JJ didn’t bike home. Brains scattered across the pavement didn’t seem like a dignified way to meet his maker.
Butch’s place clears out at two, but he gave JJ a burger and let him stay behind to nurse the last dregs off the keg until he was done closing up for the night. It isn’t much, really, but it’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for him in two years, so JJ’s still thinking about it as he crosses past the screen door and into his home. It’s quiet this time of night, this early in the day, nothing but birds chirping and the rattle of the A.C.. It’s quite nice, the unending hum, and JJ’s eager to burrow under his covers, scroll Twitter until he finds something that holds Big Jay’s attention, and jerk himself off to dreamland.
“Jay?”
Half way down the hall, JJ stops in his tracks. There’s a choice here, a forked road laid out in front of him, but he’s too many beers deep to see much difference. He could run, slip out the door and hide out until Dad’s gone to work, or he could follow the voice, take whatever beating’s waiting for him, and go the fuck to bed.
Either way, he’s sort of screwed and JJ rather take his licks now than get twice as much later.
“Yeah, Pops?” JJ mumbles as he turns on his heel, padding into the living room. Dad’s by the couch, getting his shit together. He’s working construction at the moment, so most days have him up before the sun, but JJ spots the open pill bottle on the coffee table. If only the Kooks in this town knew how many of their million dollar homes had been smashed together by baseheads, they’d riot.
Turning to look at him, Luke sets down his bag and approaches his son. He’s got that face, that droopy look of his that means he’s gone soft. JJ’s never been able to stand it, can’t breathe when he sees the guilt in his father’s eyes. What happened in the bathroom, that’s Luke Maybank. What’s in front of him now is some alien that’s snatched his body. Any second he’ll slurp up JJ’s brains with a straw, he’s sure of it.
The spot where dad clocked him has been tender all day, and Not Dad is reaching up, parting JJ’s hair with his thick fingers as if to see the knot left behind. “I know I’ve been hard on you lately,” He says, that dreary inkiness to his voice like the pills have just melted into his stomach lining. “I just … don’t want you to do what I’ve done. You’re a good kid. You can still be a good kid.”
JJ clenches his jaw, bottom lip slipping between his teeth as he turns away as far as his neck will allow. His eyes burn, all of him burns, because he can’t stand the heat of Not Dad’s praise. “Yeah. I- I know that,” He says, forcing out every syllable like swallowing glass. “I’m trying.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you are,” Luke nods, patting JJ’s cheek now. He takes JJ by the back of the neck until JJ looks at him, bleary eyes meeting even bleerier ones. What use is a mirror when you have a father? “I get a little ahead of myself sometimes and I- I put a lot on you, Jay. It was hard, without you around. It was like when your mom left all over again. But you came back to me.”
He’s going to be sick. JJ’s going to clutch his stomach and vomit everything he’s ever eaten all over the floor, because he doesn’t want this, doesn’t know what to do with this. It’s beyond language, beyond understanding, and all JJ’s left with is the fucking look Not Dad’s giving him and this intoxicated string of almost-apologies that will be forgotten the second JJ leaves the front door unlocked or forgets to put the dishes away. It’s meaningless, all of it, because JJ can’t hold onto it, can’t see any proof like he can the violence.
When Dad hits him, there’s a mark. When he loves him, nothing’s left behind.
Nodding one last time, Luke offers his son a smile and pulls back. “Make me some coffee, yeah? I got a long day ahead of me.” Before JJ can take up the offer, his father disappears in the direction of the bathroom. One last check-over to make sure he looks sober enough not to raise suspicion.
JJ’s shaking on his way to the kitchen, hands balled into fists at his side that he keeps opening and closing, flexing his fingers with the need to bash his knuckles into something hard. It’s that little boy hope that has him swollen with rage, the old impulse to think maybe this is the beginning of change, that maybe Dad’ll get clean and they’ll be a family. JJ’s too old and too broken to fall for it this time, but the nearness of it’s got him scared. Terrified. He’s making a mess as he flings instant coffee into the percolator, the smell of bottom-shelf pre-ground beans scooped out a tub bigger than his head a bitter stench that only worsens as it lingers. Water splashes over the counter as he pours it into the machine, slamming the pot back into place. He grabs Luke’s thermos from the counter and unscrews the lid, letting it drop with a clatter. JJ hates him. JJ could kill him. Wants to kill him. He could snatch the coffee pot and smash in his father’s face. He could kick him while he’s down and leave boot impressions on each and every one of his ribs. JJ’s been there, knows the agonizing itch of bones fusing back together. It’s only fair. It’s the only fair thing in the world.
Life’s not fair, Jackson. Better you learn it now. With me.
The memory’s like a hot iron to his hippocampus and JJ winces, gripping the edge of the sink for balance as he breathes slowly through his nose. Hands like spiders crawl over him, tickling his skin, and there’s weight against his back, pressing against his spine until JJ’s bowed over. Darkness. Bedsheets. The tinkling of leather slipped through metal. Suffocating. JJ’s suffocating and he can’t take it, can’t leave the past behind.
He can’t forget how C.O. Barnett smelled.
JJ’s got a hand down his pants before he realizes what he’s doing. He’s hard to the point of pain, every inch of his cock pulsing in his grip. Aftershave. Sweat. Coarse stubble rubbing his shoulder raw. JJ just wants to breathe again, to suck in air without it getting trapped behind his ribs. He works himself up and down and thinks of his father in the bathroom, remembers how it felt to be pressed against the floor. Trapped under his weight.
“Oh, fuck,” JJ gasps, head swimming. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to, leans into the pleasure as he pumps his hand. Dirty. Filthy. Ruined. JJ just wants to feel whole again, needs to be turned inside out before he forgets the feeling, before he starts to miss what he never really knew. The coffee maker beeps, but JJ’s busy, won’t take his eyes off the bite on his arm.
The indentations of Rafe’s teeth have faded away, but the ache is still there. It had felt good, that wet mouth of the Cameron boy, and JJ pictures him on his knees, lips glossy and tongue outstretched, those fuzzy eyes of his staring up at JJ in wonder.
It’s quick, how JJ pulls out his cock from his cargos with one hand and catches his father’s thermos with the other. It’s only a second after JJ’s shot his load into it that he realizes what he’s done, what he’s willing to do.
It’s revenge, JJ tells himself as he tucks himself away and reaches for the coffee pot. He stares at the pearly ropes of come for only a brief moment before pouring the steaming liquid on top. Bits of white instantly float to the surface, so JJ twists on the top and gives the thermos a shake, hoping it all blends together.
“Ready for me?”
JJ flinches, nearly dropping the thermos as he wheels around to face his father. His heart starts it’s hammering, so he presses his palm to his breastbone, trying to soothe the overexcited organ.
Luke doesn’t wait, just takes the thermos out his hands and pops the top. JJ doesn’t feel guilty as his father tips his head back and gulps, just watches the bobbing of his throat. After a swallow, Luke runs his tongue along his teeth. “Are we out of creamer?”
JJ blanches, looks from his father to the fridge and back again. “Shit,” He says, digging the heel of his hand into his chest like he intends to scoop out his innards. “I forgot.”
It’s Not Dad again, the forgiving one that reminds him why he’s done what he’s done, that gives JJ a small smile and claps his shoulder. “It’s all good, Jay. I like it better black.”
on twitter this got a bunch of responses like “wow even the evil fujoshis? the homophobic yet hypocritically fetishistic ones? what if the fujoshi is racist?” and like well no obviously not in that case.
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