#curtis ward

count your blessings, 2006

Oh sweet baby jesus. Boys, cover your eyes

Bmth suicide season era

note: this was again written for my friend, i still have no knowledge of anything bmth related🥹

Curtis wiped his hands on the coarse fabric of the cloth, nudging the faucet off with his elbow. A week and three days since his… disagreement with Oliver Sykes, and a rough week and three days that was. He could say that he doesn’t miss Oli, which is… half true. He really only misses his company. And his help. And his jokes. And his laugh. And all the things he’d never ever ever admit aloud, even if it meant he would get his friendship back.

Ringgggg — Ringgggg — Ringgggg

“Oh my god,” Curtis murmured half-heartedly. “I can’t even piss without this guy showing up everywhere.”

C: “brrrrt. You’ve reached Curtis Wardddd, SO sorry i’m unavailable to take ya phone calllll, but i’m —”

O: “Oh youuuu hehe. Can’t believe you think I don’t have ya real voicemail memorized.”

C: “I don’t even have a real voicemail set up”

O: “Don’t care”

C: “Oookayy. What do you want?”

O: “Just wanted to let ya know i’m terriblay apologetic for the shit I might have saidddd nnnnn wutnot.”

C: “What’d you say to me again?”

O: “That I’m sorry for harborin’ romantic feelings for ya mama. In which I am apologetic for that because I lied. I wasn’t sorry for lovin’ ya mummy.”

C: “Kay, thanks for that..”

C: “Anythin’ else?”

Faint swallows and disheveled breathing from the other line can be heard, in which Curtis quirks an eyebrow.

O: “Like, uhm, mmnn, fuckin… dude. There’s like 9 places in my house that I could hide inside in the event of an apocalypse… -hiccup-.. n’ like, my backyard is liek a sex dungeon nmmnnmm”

C: “Are you seriously drunk right now? With communion tomorrow?”

O: “hey wait… they give ya the wine shots at comunionin…cominunion… right? And the crackers?”

C: “oh my god, you idiot.”

O: “Wanna come over to my place, nnn shit? Please?”

The crumb of a whimper that lingers in Oli’s voice is enough to get Curtis on his feet. Curtis is already slipping his shoes on when Oli decides he doesn’t want to shut his mouth.

O: “I got… uhm… the zombie game. Resident Evil. We can play that… n’ share a drink or two…”

Curtis prods at the small red lighter in his hand while a cigarette rests between his lips like he’d been born with it nestled there.

C: “Ummm, yeah. One sec, alright? And don’t drink any more before I get there. your fuckin’ liver’s gonna fail.”

Oli snickers lightly on the other line, causing Curtis’s growing problem to stir in his rather constrictive jeans.

Within minutes, Curtis’s knuckles are stabbing at the door of Oli’s residence. Oli jolts upright, 3 day old pterodactyl socks sliding across the floor as he’s one of those kids who refuses to pick their feet up when they walk.

The door swings open with a creak.

“Curtttttt, come inside, kay? There’s, uhm, booze on the coffee table in the basement. Follow moiii.”

Curtis is almost hesitant to step inside the Sykes residency. Clothes were strewn across the hardwood floor, with obvious signs that many articles had lied there for weeks on end. Seriously, and the guy wonders why he’s missing clothing. Soda cans littered the countertops, an overflowing trash bin tucked against the couch.

Curtis flicked his cigarette dud onto the carpet. It blended in nicely, so he figured it’d make great decor.

—Timeskip 3 hours— 10:32pm

“This game is too hardddd,” Oli whines pitifully from his spot dangerously close to Curtis. Curtis had noticed Oliver’s torpid migration towards him despite Curtis’s frequent shifts away from him.

“Yeah? Then turn it off, idiot,” Curtis suggests scornfully.

“I don’t wannaaauggggh.. What if Lindsay only lays dudes that know who Leon Kennedy is?”

“Who the HELL is Lindsay.”

“Lindsay Lohan,” Oli states matter-of-factly “AKA, hottest babe alive, amirite?”

“The Mean Girls chick?”

“I’m gonna jizz if we keep talking about her, mate.”

“Oh my god.”

Oli scoots closer to Curtis will skillful ease, his dark, hooded eyes batting at Curtis. Curtis straightens up quickly. Boner. He has a boner. ‘Am I gonna go to hell? Lord, look, I know I’ve been smoking and stuff and I haven’t been on my best behavior but I really am not gay, I swear!’ Curtis’s mind is racing, a deep pink dusting his cheeks.

“I’m gonna whizz. I’ll be back.” Curtis jumps out of his spot on the couch, trotting over to the nearest bathroom. As soon as he hears the door click shut and locked, his fingers are fumbling with the button of his jeans.

Curtis’s fingers slip beneath the elastic of his boxers, cold fingers brushing the pink skin hidden under the fabric. This is wrong. This is so wrong. No amount of confessions to the priest will wash away the dirt that clouds his mind.

Curtis can barely feel the pleasure in his hardness through the hot, searing pain scorching his conscience. Homosexuality is filthy. Homosexuality is like a punch in the gut and he can’t even stomach the fact that Oli Sykes makes him horny. Tears streak down his cheeks like his clean body is being stripped personally by the devil himself down to nothing more than a humiliating, nude body to be pointed at and spit on.