#fanfics!

"Kneel," Janus says. It's dim in the room. Light flickering from various candles and from the single lonesome lamp in the corner. They cast orange and yellow hues onto the floor.

The way Logan collapses to the ground is amusing. His knees slam hard against the wood flooring. He sways, slightly, staring up at Janus, awaiting his next task. Listen, obey, listen, obey-- those words repeat in his head. Janus feels the corner of his lips quirk up. He loves seeing Logan compliant for him. Light shines across Logan's face, basking him in yellow.

"Good boy," Janus purrs. He waves a dismissive hand, turning to his side to lift up his weapon-- it's a handgun. A .44 magnum. Light catches on the metal as he flicks the gun back and forth.

After dinner, the rest of the sides had all ran to hide in their rooms, while Logan stayed behind to hesitantly ask Janus for some... help.

("I've been researching into hypnotism and the fetish itself," Logan starts. His glabella creases as he furrows his brows in thought. "While I highly doubt it's level of success in the real world, I think it would be easier to apply to us."

Janus was busy wiping the dining table down. He didn't look up. "Us?"

"As sides, I mean."

Janus tosses the towel onto the counter and raises an eyebrow at Logan. The man runs his fingers up and down his blue tie.

"You, as the metaphysical representation of deceit, are able to control the information we reveal, quite literally." Logan gestures vaguely to Janus' hands. "Physically, you have control over our mouths. I assume mind control wouldn't be too... much of a difference..." He trails off at the end.

It was a much longer discussion. Their sexual relationship had always been a thing, even if neither of them label it, and Logan's not one to beat around the bush with what he's speaking about. Logan wanted to be hypnotised. To have Janus control his every move and thought, to do with him as he pleased.

To say Janus was excited would be an understatement.)

Janus, Janus, Janus. Logan's head is swimming. Listen, obey, comply.

The barrel of the gun points down at Logan and Logan can't control his reaction. He whines, bucking his hips and shuffling closer to his Sir. Janus laughs. Logan leans forward and presses his lips to the cool metal. He kisses it softly, eyelids fluttering.

"Aren't you pretty?" Janus coos. His free hand cards through Logan's hair. He trails his fingers down, scratching behind Logan's ears. The gun taps against Logan's mouth, once, twice. "Isn't this lovely?" He asks. He drags the barrel up Logan's face, across his flushed cheeks, up to his forehead. Logan headbutts the gun, twisting his head as he pushes against it-- bunting like a cat. Drool rolls down his chin. "Sitting here, letting me think for you, take all your thoughts away, obeying so nicely," Janus continues on, hearing Logan whimper quietly.

Janus hums. His tongue runs across his bottom lip. Logan's eyes can barely stay open. His hands are curled into fists, like little paws, pushing down against the floor.

"Where should I shoot you?" Janus asks. "I could shoot your stomach. Stick my fingers inside the wound and molest your intestines, do you think that would feel good, dear?"

Logan's hips jerk upwards.

"Or what about your chest? Shoot open your ribcage and pull your heart out of the cavity. I wonder if I could use it as a tight, little fleshlight..."

Logan moans. His hands raise to grip Janus' pant leg.

"Or... better yet," Janus purrs, "what about..." He grabs a fistful of Logan's dark curls. He tugs, hard, pulling Logan up to sit straighter and Logan's face scrunches up in pain and pleasure. Logan goes cross eyed, following the gun with his eyes as it comes to rest against the bridge of his nose. "In between those pretty little eyes of yours? Right," Janus taps once, "here."

Logan gasps.

Janus knows where he wants to shoot, though. Besides, it's not like he has to ask, with Logan in this state. The boy would follow his every direction. Even if it meant jumping off a bridge. (And isn't that an appealing idea...)

The gun drags up to the center of Logan's forehead. Janus follows a bead of sweat rolling down his hairline to his eyebrow. "I could , instead, shoot those pretty little brains out."

Logan moans, loud. He barely mumbles out a sentence, making incoherent sounds and speaking partial words.

"Put that brain of yours to rest," Janus coos, "I mean... It must be so exhausting thinking all of the time. You must be so, so tired."

Logan feels so heavy. He doesn't think that he could hold himself up without Janus. Limbs hanging loosely as he tries his best to keep his head up. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. There's quiet pitter patters against the wood beneath him, as his drool rolls down his chin and onto the floor. There's a heat in his groin and he wants to be touched, and groped, and fondled. He wants to rut against Janus' shin, or shove his hands down his pants to palm at his hard-on, but he knows better.

"No more thinking, no more worries... Don't you think you deserve that? Haven't you been so good for me, darling?" Janus grins when Logan nods. He's whimpering like a kicked puppy.

There's a bulge in Logan's pants. He's trembling under every light touch, flinching when Janus' leather boots touch his side or graze his thighs. Janus presses down on Logan's thigh, watching as he gasps and his hips twitch, but he doesn't move. Good boy. Janus can tell he wants to. Logan's mouth moves as if he's speaking, but nothing audible comes out.

"You just want to obey, don't you?" Janus smiles as he watches the way Logan's pupils widen, with slivers of brown at the edge. His eyes become hazy, sinking further and further down into the mindset Janus wants him in. "Lift up your hands."

Logan raises them easily, unwavering, as if he was a puppet being pulled by a string and Janus was his puppeteer.

"Now, take the gun, sweet thing."

Logan's panting hard as he takes the gun with shaky hands-- he almost looks like a little dog begging for a treat: sitting on his knees while he slobbers down his chin.

Janus cocks his head. "You want to kill yourself that badly?" Logan makes a pathetic little noise, bobbing his head up and down. "For me?" Janus places a hand on his chest, cooing. Logan mutters unintelligibly. He looks so out of it.

Janus hums, running his hand through Logan's hair and petting him.

"Pl-please," Logan moans out. He sounds pathetic, mouth full of spit and voice thick. His voice cracks at the end.

"Please what?"

Logan whimpers. Janus watches as his eyes squeeze shut and then open. He headbutts the gun, twisting his head to the side. "Please, I want--" He groans. His head feels hazy and his thoughts aren't connecting-- shoot, obey, Janus, listen, die-- Janus knows Logan can't really beg in this state, a mindless obedient doll, but he likes watching him struggle.

"Speak up, doll, or maybe I won't let you," Janus sighs. Really, it's a fake threat. Like, he'd ever pass up an opportunity to see Logan's corpse on his floor.

Logan whines, high pitch and needy. "Please!" He stutters out, shaking, "Please let me kill myself, please, please, please."

Janus smiles. "Well... you have been so good for me, haven't you?" Logan nods jerkily, humming. "And it'd feel so good to not think anymore, right?" Janus taps his chin. He pretends to think as Logan shivers at his feet.

Suddenly, Janus gasps in feigned shock.

"My, my, Logan!" Janus gestures to Logan's crotch. "Someone's excited. Do you want to touch yourself?" Logan sits up at that, blinking up at Janus with wide eyes. Janus hums. He runs his boots along Logan's body, enjoying how he spasms underneath his touch. He leans forward while gripping Logan's chin in his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up.

"Well, go on, now," Janus says. He takes the gun from Logan's hands and watches as he unbuckles his pants and pulls out his little cock. It's a little over 4 inches, but it's thick, and it's cute. Precum is dripping down the side of his shaft.

Logan wraps his left hand around his cock, moaning as he squeezes lightly. He fucks into his hand quick. Janus tuts.

"Slow."

Logan immediately falters. His hand moves slower over his cock, spreading his precum and using it as lubricant. He's blinking blearily at Janus. Janus hands him the gun in his right hand. and Logan takes it carefully, pressing it up against his temple. He's moaning as he strokes himself. Panting like an overeager puppy.

Janus watches him. Watches the way he jerks himself off, slow but impatient, while biting his lips and keeping eye contact with Janus. Watches the way he start's squirming closer to his climax, hips twitching and cock throbbing. Watches the way he edges himself, squeezing his thighs together and trying to slow his movements-- but not stopping or finishing.

He didn't get permission yet.

Janus leans against the chair, swinging an arm over the back. Logan sounds entirely inconsolable. Moaning out quiet pleases mixed in with Janus' name, wheezing for air and babbles through his words. The gun is pressed hard against Logan's temple.

"Please, please," Logan cries.

Logan's breathing gets heavier, stronger. He's heaving like he ran up a flight of stairs. The gun in his hand quivers and he squeezes his eyes shut, tears running down his face. He's close, but he's stuck on the edge, awaiting Janus' command.

"Are you close?" Janus asks.

"Yes," Logan says, pleading, "please--"

"Do you want to kill yourself?"

Logan perks up at that, cock spurting out another little bead of precum. "Yes! " He nuzzles the gun in his hand, almost like he's forgotten it was even there.

Janus smiles from his spot on the chair. He trails his eyes up and down Logan's shaking body. "Cum for me."

Logan's orgasm is immediate. He thrusts upwards into his hand two times before he's cumming. He let's out a shakey gasp, almost growling. He twists his wrist under the head of his cock and moans. His cum splatters on the floor and on Janus' leather shoes.

Then,

"Pull the trigger."

Logan doesn't hesitate.

He doesn't even have to think. Not with Janus doing it for him.

His cock spurts out another rope of cum as his finger trembles over the trigger, pushing down. It's instant, the way his body collapses to the ground with a thwack. The gun clatters out of his hand onto the floor as he falls backwards. His body spasms, twitching subtly, and then stills— entirely tensed up.

Janus swallows the saliva in his mouth. Logan's cock is now embarrassingly soft, hand still wrapped around it like a joystick. Janus lets his eyes roam over Logan's body.

A puddle of blood forms around Logan's head. It trickles down his forehead and into his eyes— open and vacant. They stare off into nothing. His mouth hangs partially open with drool mixing in with his own blood. Janus can't help but touch himself through his pants. Running a hand across his crotch, palming himself, he makes a little strangled noise.

Logan looks beautiful like this.

It's a bit of a struggle getting Logan to sit back up, but this isn't Janus' first time. Janus grabs underneath his armpits, tugging and pulling, until he's slouched and pressed up against Janus' legs. His head lolls, falling near the tent in Janus' pants and the man curses. He runs a hand along Logan's pretty bullet wound: the blood staining his yellow gloves a vibrant, bright red. It's still gushing out of him. The hole definitely isn't big enough for his cock (he can barely fit 2 fingers in). He bites the ends of his gloves, tearing them off with his teeth and tossing them somewhere across the room. Logan's blood tastes metallic on his tongue through the cloth and he imagines what it would be like to tonguefuck that brain of his. What would it taste like?

His index finger prods at the hole. He carefully pushes it in, with struggle, wrestling deep into his skin and past his skull. It makes a gross squelching noise.

Janus licks his teeth. His foot taps against the floor.

"Jesus," Janus groans under his breath. His cock twitches in his pants as he pushes another finger in. He needs to be patient. Needs to be perfect. He has no reason to rush this.

The injury stretches with Janus' fingers (he's glad they're imaginary). He's basically fingering the wound at this point: curling into the wrinkles of Logan's brains and pushing up against the inside of his head.

Using the side of Logan's head as leverage, he puts his thumb underneath the wound and wraps his fingers around the inside of his skull, wedging a third finger in and pulling. He pulls, and he pulls, and he pulls. The hole squelches and oozes. Logan's skull cracks with Janus' moments.

Janus inhales deep and slow.

When he sneaks a peak at Logan's face, Logan still has that empty stare in his eyes. He sits so still. So perfect and compliant.

"Beautiful," Janus murmurs into the air.

He lets his cock spring free, unbuckling and unzipping his pants open. He takes his fingers out of the gash. Thick strands of blood quiver in the air and snap as he moves further away. His hand strokes his cock and lubes him up with the blood squirting from Logan's little head.

Janus takes a shaky breath.

The tip of his cock presses up against the hole.

His teeth grit and grind. as his cock struggles against the muscles, forcing his way inside of Logan's brains.

"You're... tight," he mutters gruffly. Logan's brains are warm and wet and tight. He bottoms out with a moan. Hips flushed with the side of Logan's head.

He flutters his eyes shut. He hasn't even gotten to fucking him yet and he's trying not to cum from the sensation alone.

"Look at what you do to me, Logan," Janus sighs, "even in death."

How long could he continue to use Logan's rotting corpse? How many times could he fuck this wound, before it deteriorates and decays? How many new wounds could he make with his body; exploring the way Logan's flesh tears under his fingers and how his bright blood gushes out of him? Would the sides even question if he's gone? Would he lay Logan's corpse on display, letting everyone watch as he defiles his toy? Sitting still, taking everything Janus gives him. Janus' thrusting becomes uneven. He barely pulls out fully before forcing his way back into Logan's head.

With a curse, Janus cums into Logan's head. His hips slam against the other man, shuttering and twitching. He hunches over him, crowding and towering over him. Hands are pulling out hair with his tight grip on Logan's curls. He's rutting against him, riding out his orgasm, panting and moaning, like a disgusting dog. Load after load pours into his skull.

He breathes, chest rising up and down.

When he does finally pull out from Logan's warm, wet hole, threads of blood and cum hanging in the air— it's hard to tell where his cum begins and where Logan's blood ends.

Janus sighs.

He leans back against his seat, running a hand through Logan's hair. He thoroughly enjoys this view: Logan's eyes as he slowly grows cold, semen and blood spilling down his face, drool running down his chin. He cradles Logan's cheek in his other hand.

Summer’s breeze wasn’t in your favor today. The rain from yesterday made everything sticky, and the winds only intensified the oppressive heat. Your shirt collar was soaked with sweat, just like several other parts of your body.

It was a terrible week to run out of lumber.

Out of respect, and after nearly being refused entry to their house, you remained on the doormat, waiting for Emily to return from her sewing room. Feeling like a dog about to shake, the way you were panting in their entryway. And the look of distaste on Haley’s face confirmed that.

Seated on the couch in front of you, she was analyzing your dirty boots and grass stains. But there was almost a morbid (to her) curiosity about your appearance. You lived such different lives.

“Don’t you get tired of running around on that farm all day or whatever it is you do? I couldn’t stand getting all dirty like that.”

“Sometimes.” You answered.

You’re not one to jump into conversation most of the time, as it’s actually one of your worst skills, but you don’t think she actually insults you. The remarks feel more like ignorant privilege than intentional malice. And she asks too many questions to be someone who doesn’t care to know the answers.

—You hummed, suddenly fully distracted from your train of thought.

Something was off; you could feel it in your feet. Rocking your ankles side to side, you discovered that your boots were uneven. One of your laces had unraveled.

Kneeling down to fix it, you untied it and meticulously stretched out both tails to ensure they were equal in length. To your surprise, one half of the string fully came out; at some point, the laces must have broken apart. You’ll have to get a new pair. You add it to your mental checklist, quickly making a knot to hold for the day before reinserting it into each eyelet.

Your hair was draped over the sides of your face from being bent over. Damp clumps stubbornly stuck to your cheeks and forehead when you tried to brush them away from your eyes, causing you to pause repeatedly throughout your task.

Haley’s scoff was ignored. However, you did look up slightly when her slippered feet came into view right in front of your toes. A small object was in her hand, and she reached over confidently, stilling you at her suddenly close proximity.

You wish she had asked before she touched you. But to her credit, she was gentle as she collected two groups of your hair, pulling them back from your face and securing them together so they didn’t move from behind your head.

Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth as she focused, completely ignoring your eyes on her. An interesting habit you unknowingly stored away in your mind.

When she stopped moving, you resumed back to relacing your boot. Shifting knees to readjust the tightness of the other one so they matched. Haley didn’t create any distance between the two of you. Only examining your face after you awkwardly stood up. Her eyebrows were serious, and her nail quickly tugged a small clump of hair from your hairline to lay against your forehead before nodding to herself, satisfied.

Emily’s footsteps announced her entrance back from her sewing room, “I think I found it, Ro!”

At her questioning look, Haley stepped back from you, walking away in the direction of her room. “There,” She says. “Now you don’t look, a third as bad as usual.”

You reached up to touch the clip Haley had placed in your hair, grabbing the thread Emily had for you with the other hand. Thanking her before noticing as you turned to leave;

A mirror was attached above the cubby with shoes, helping you see that the pink clip you had usually seen in Haley’s hair was now in yours.

And though you weren’t much of a person who cared for your appearance, you decided to keep it in for the rest of the day.

It looked nice.

Thomas, Roman, and Patton all surrounded Logan.

"Yeah, Logan!" Patton cheered, "help Virgil out!"

"This is a very strange sight to see, guys, I'm gonna be honest," Thomas said, trying to look away but not being able to— it was like a car crash. "but... if it helps Virgil and his anxiety, then... I guess I'm all for it."

Roman sighed, frowning, "Love is love... i guess.... I wish I could have the type of love those two have.

"What the fuck is happening."

They all swung around to see Virgil standing behind them. Though his eyes weren't on any of them, but directly on the thing they were commenting on. He looked... horrified.

"Oh! Virgil, we're just watching Logan comfort Vir— ... hm." Patton trailed off, glancing over to Logan.

"Are you making out with a sock , babe?" Virgil asked, mouth agape.

Logan stared wide-eyed at Virgil, still sucking on a white sock. He looked down at himself and then back up, slowly, hesitantly... like a scared animal, almost. He gripped the ends and pulled it out.

"Oh, Virgil," Logan stated, "I thought........ were you not a sock puppet earlier..?"

"No..." Virgil eyed the sock. "I wasn't..."

"So..." Logan held up the soaking sock. "This... isn't you?"

"I'm standing right Here. How can that be me."

"Well, I just assumed—"

"Hold on," Virgil shoved his face into his hands, "You thought that sock was me?"

Thomas interjected, "We thought... You know, how you turn into a sock puppet? I thought— like, you know, when you’re anxious."

"That doesn't even LOOK like me!"

They all looked at the disgusting wet sock. On closer examination, it wasn't an all white sock, but instead a white sock with little paw prints on it.

"That's clearly Patton's sock!"

Patton squinted at it, rubbing his chin. Then he gasped, like he just discovered a secret.

"That IS my sock! I was wondering where it went!!!" Patton exclaimed, reaching for it. He bent down to tug it back over his left foot, which was sock-free. His right foot had the same matching sock. "I lost it earlier after I put it on. Silly me!"

"YOU WERE SUCKING ON PATTON'S WORN SOCK?" Virgil yelled.

"I was trying to comfort you!" Logan gasped, offended, wiping off the spit that surrounded his mouth.

"WHY DID YOU THINK THAT WOULD WORK?"

"Logan always makes out with you when you're anxious!" Roman said, defending Logan. For some reason.

"What???"

Logan, however, looked vaguely embarrassed. He couldn't look anyone in the eyes now.

"He said that every time we've caught you guys making out, it was to help your anxiety," Roman continued.

Virgil blinked.

"And you.... believed him—"

"Let's not worry too much about the specifics," Logan cleared his throat, "What's done is done. We can all forget about what happened."

"I don't think I can forget what I just saw, babe," Virgil grimaced.

Patton smiled, clasping his hands, "I'm just happy I found my lost sock!"

"Yeah.... It's soaking wet, padre, you didn't wanna wait for that to, uh... dry?" Roman frowned, stepping away from him.

Thomas stared at the sight before him, almost at a lost for words. Then he remembered:

They're still recording a video.

Thomas shook his head and stared back at the camera. "Well, now that... that's... over. Just remember that there's many different ways to handle your anxiety, some that work and others that... are a bit more strange."

"Yeah, why did we watch Logan make out with a sock for 20 minutes?" Roman asked.

"Weren't you the main one telling him to?" Thomas replied.

"That's besides the point."

"You can distract yourself or even get the metaphysical representation of your logic to make out with your anxiety, in whatever form he takes—"

"Me and Logan don't make out because I'm anxious???" Virgil held out his hands, mouth wide and eyes glancing around the room. He was flabbergasted.

"Logan and I," Logan corrected.

"You just stuck a sock down your throat, don't try and correct me."

"Can I finish my outro??? Guys, we need to stop interrupting me when I talk."

— — —

"So, what was even going on?" Virgil rose up in his usual spot, staring at Logan. Logan was also standing in his same spot, simply reading a book.

Logan pursed his lips, lowering the book. "Well.... It all started when Thomas wanted to record. He wanted to make a video about anxiety again, since you've been accepted now and wanted to showcase how recovery isnt always linear."

"Okay...?"

"In midst of all this," Logan sucked in a breath, "Roman brought up... our habits..."

"Our... habits?" Virgil raised an eyebrow.

Logan glared at him. "You know what I mean. Our hangout sessions. Our secret meetings. Our lifestyle. "

"You mean us dating? And doing normal dating things? Like... kissing?"

Logan shushed him dramatically, raising a finger to his lips.

Virgil pushed his hand away. "I'm assuming you didn't tell them that?"

Logan sighed. "Look, I panicked. I wasn't sure if you wanted me to be the one to do it and we've never talked about it. So... I told them that it was a coping mechanism."

Virgil groaned, face palming.

"But, besides that. The entire recording you— or, more accurately, we assumed you were a sock puppet. Ever since that episode, you always revert back to that when you're anxious. Roman wouldn't stop bringing it up and saying I needed to just make out with you to help you, so I could stop translating for you and—"

"Hold the fuck on," Virgil interrupted.

"What now? Please at least let me finish the explanation you so clearly desired," Logan said, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

"You guys thought I was Patton's sock that... entire... time??? And no one said anything??? Why did you even assume that?"

"I THOUGHT it was YOU, Virgil, why is this a hard concept to understand—"

"IT DOESN'T EVEN LOOK LIKE ME? IT WASN'T EVEN TALKING."

"On the contrary," Logan started, "I was translating for you."

Virgil blinked. and then blinked again. and one more time, just in case this reality was fake.

"... You were what?"

"I was translating what the sock was saying to the rest of the sides."

Virgil looked around the room. "Was it... talking... to you?"

"For a matter of fact, Virgil, yes the sock was talking to me," Logan said aspirated, "I can communicate with socks, okay? I thought you knew that."

"I VERY MUCH DID NOT?"

"I did think that it was a bit strange because the sock did not sound anything like you and was saying very, very out of character things, but I just assumed you were super anxious! I know how you get—"

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT."

"Please, stop yelling.”

Virgil wiped his face. "Logan, this isn't making any sense. It sounds like we're in some sort of crack fic written by a semi-popular sanders sides artist and a semi-popular sanders sides editor, based off of their discord dms!"

Logan blinked at him. "Crack fic? Virgil, you are aware that neither of us do drugs, correct? Plus, i don't understand why we would, surely it wouldn't affect us the same way it affects humans—"

"Not what I meant, nerd," Virgil sighed. "I mean. This feels like a fever dream."

" I guess so... Arguably, this wouldn't have happened if I had just... told them the truth."

Virgil patted Logan on the back. One day, he'll open up with his feelings. And maybe they can actually come out about their relationship—

"Wait. Episode? You're saying Thomas recorded that whole thing?"

"Yes?" Logan fixed his glasses. "And posted."