synopsis: james' preferred way to cope with his horrors? imagine you.
warnings: masturbation, mention of cunnilingus, piv, dumbification, mention of fingering, afab!reader
james sunderland was doll-dizzy—despairingly so, when it came to you. he loved you for your hospitality (the generous reception with which you let him fill your chubby cunt to excess), your liberality (the way you’d sit pretty and take the way he pigs out on you, even as your thighs quaked and hands pawed at his shoulders), but your zeal as you take him as far as his dick can reach in you… he gets heartburn just thinking about it.
james sunderland isn’t a bad man. he’s just buttoned his issues up one too many times. he thought he could dress them up, make them look different, come face-to-face with the hellish reality of what happened in silent hill.
james isn’t a bad man, because you don’t exist. it started remediably before it escalated into malignancy. he gave you a face, then a body. his want for connection filled in the blanks eventually: what style would you have? would you have a love for thrifts, or a tacky love for the excess? what would your lips, that he’d woolgathered countless samples of, feel against his? chapped, with a need to be wetted by tongue? sticky with a lip gloss? speaking of your tongue—how far could you stretch it for him? how permissible was it to want to ‘pipe’ a pipe dream?
you weren’t his fantasy. you weren’t ‘his’ at all. you might’ve owned him. if he’d lost it all tomorrow—as if he hadn’t lost enough already—you’d be all he had to his name.
name. you still needed a name. he’ll have to remind himself later.
you were worse than all of his (very real) demons, with the phantasmagoria of positions you let him put you in. worse than his empty hand. he hated you, he loved you. because you whet his dick and his heart in equal measure, so what’s a man to do when all you are is a fabrication that he projects onto?
he groans, cock limp even with a helping hand. he’s not a spring chicken, and since he’s only got his spit for company, he’s good for a quick jerk. but if it were you who he was fucking, instead of a poor substitute, he’d take his sweet time. were you a mewler? a moaner? a screamer? would you twitch and wriggle with every thoughtful drag he’d make? would you wobble on the enunciation of his name if he fucked you dumb enough?
would you squirt? he’s betting today’s load you would.
he plays fast and loose with his own cock, tip gushy as he focuses on ringing it with thick fingers to the third degree. to hell with friction burn, he needed to take it like a good boy if he was to compensate for the lack of heat.
james knows its futile, but to combat his crippling loneliness and in an unhealthy absence of moral rectitude, he shimmies two fingers in the air, groaning smuttily as he imagines it to be you. you, with your fluttery, gummy walls—and your lush fucking everything that he can’t get his hands on, so he has to grope the draft filtering out from his air conditioner like he’s on his last life.
he’s so close to sweet relief that even as he drives his dick into the hole he forms for himself nightly, his cum comes in gradual spurts, dripping down the seam between his thumb and index finger he likes to rub himself against best, because it feels the most like you.
uninvitedly, as he shudders, he weeps your name—he thought he hadn’t yet named you?
then in his mind’s eye, you smile, like the indefectible plague you are, and it does his head so far in that all he can do is sob feebly into his ringed hand in some craven abdication of his shitty, solitary existence.
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