how about making a clone that is the mix of your boyfrienemesis (though you're broken up in the moment) and some other guy's boyfriend who's been missing for a while in hopes of finding him
Welcome to Part 2 of the JimCurly adopted brothers AU! I had this written a week ago, but my wifi decided to cut out on me LMAO.
Warnings: Curly POV so not as many. Alcohol, graphic description of maggots and larvae for use of a metaphor, uhhh...my hand slipped and I accidentally made Curly way less normal about Jimmy than I meant to LMFAO, so there is one-sided JimCurly this time.
(Also, the tense is weird in this one, I was trying something new. If anyone sees a tense change that doesn't make sense, please comment on it)
Grant Curly was happy.
He had no reason not to be, after all.
There was a dull thumping bass filling his bone marrow, shaking his lungs and rattling his ribcage, pulsing in time like the house itself had a monstrous heartbeat.
A plastic cup was heavy in his hand, the ethanol sting of its contents heavy at the back of his throat all the way up his sinuses, the bright orange liquor threatening to slosh over the rim when a wayward body pushes past his with a muttered apology that he never gets to hear, carried away by the upbeat tempo of a song he doesn't recognize.
His girlfriend, Lila, is talking to him about something her friend said, but he can't hear her over the sound of blood throbbing in his ears and he doesn't try to, too busy scanning the crowd around him. He hasn't caught sight of frizzy brown locks or familiar slumped shoulders in over an hour now, not without lack of trying, and Curly doesn't like how that makes him feel.
Yeah, Grant Curly was happy. Let's go with that.
The sensation of a warm hand tracing its way up his chest, settling over his heart, brings his focus back to the girl who was so obviously upset with the lack of attention, her pink lips jutting out at him in an exaggerated pout that made his brow twitch with the urge to furrow.
He hopes he got his confusion across by the way he looks at her, because he isn't in the mood to shout over the music.
She, apparently, is. Her first two tries are nothing but jarbled nonsense, but third times the charm, "who are you looking for?!"
Her voice carries shrill and strained, just barely rising above the electo crunch driving into his temples like an icepick, slowly chipping away at the dam in his chest that felt near to overflowing.
He doesn't attempt to scream his answer like she did. Instead he steps close, breaching her space, a hand settling on her waist to keep her still. He can tell she approves, ringlet locks wisping over the curve of her shoulders as she leans into the warmth of his skin.
"I'll be back." He whispers into the crook of her neck, the awaiting goosebumps he sees arise along her skin long premeditated when he squeezes her hip. She doesn't ask where he's going, too busy pouting her lips and batting her eyes to try and tempt him into a kiss.
He thinks of dogs and bells as he steps away before she can force the issue, shouldering his way through the crowd, head snapping this way and that as he scans once, twice, three times on his way through each room, heart pounding in time with his head and the heavy pulsing of the floor beneath his feet spurred on by overkill speakers.
One by one he paces the perimeter of each room and comes up empty. When he reaches the kitchen, he chugs the last few mouthfuls of his drink and deposits the empty cup in the trash beside his hip, mindful of the mess around him. The bitter sting of his mouth and throat, settling heavy in his stomach, does nothing to assuage the sinking dread coiling tighter with each face in the crowd that isn't the one he's looking for.
Still no sign of Jimmy. He only had one last room to check downstairs, a wayward bedroom. His feet carry him on autopilot past the threshold of people in his path, but his mind is lingering elsewhere, stuck like a record scratch on the tightness of his chest.
If Curly were honest with himself, he worried about Jimmy. He worried about him more than anything else. More than his grades. More than his social life. More than his future. And the closer it got to Jimmy's 18th birthday, the more that fear grew. Fear of the unknown, if he had to guess. Jimmy could do anything he wanted once he was an adult, and what he wanted to do could be anything.
Plus, the younger boy, though he could already hear Jimmy snarling about the moniker, insisting it was just by a few months, Grant, had been... different lately.
He wasn't sure how to explain it, beyond his own reaction to it. The sinking in his stomach, the anxious prickle of sweat at the back of his neck.
It wasn't the zoning out that was the problem, that wasn't anything new. It was how often it was happening. The look he would get in his eyes as he stared off into space. All too often it would remind Curly of the gleam of sharp metal and frantic breaths, of the acrid, suffocating tang of blood, of white walls and white bedsheets and the steady drip, drip, drip of an IV.
The painful twist in his chest, the rattling of his lungs when he forces a steadying breath, deep and measured, brings him back to the current predicament.
Right, Jimmy was missing.
Missing. Curly almost snorts at his own thoughts. Jimmy wasn't missing. It was a party, one he'd dragged him to in the first place. He was probably just lingering in a corner as always, watching people dance and drink and slosh around more than the liquid in their cups, with that same apathetic glare on his face. Familiar. Safe and sound.
But...just to be safe, he stops before the door of the last room to check, briefly pressing his ear to the painted wood to make sure he wasn't seconds away from walking into something he has no interest in seeing.
He deems it safe when he doesn't hear the telltale sound of a girl giving her best go at earning a Grammy Award, the click of the latch when he turned the handle sharp in his ears even over the deafening music, before it swung open to reveal the bedrooms interior.
Revealing... nothing.
The room was empty, the light of the hall behind him spilling inside like a cascade of gold across the floor at his feet, his silhouette cutting through the middle. And amongst the darkness, there was no Jimmy to be found.
Okay. Perhaps Jimmy was missing after all.
Curly barely felt it when his fingers gripped the brittle trim of the doorway to steady himself, nails digging into the soft wood until they threatened to bend and break under the increasing pressure.
Think, Curly. Think, think, think.
But it was hard to piece together a coherent thought amidst the rising numbness running through him fast enough to leave him dizzier than the alcohol tainting his blood.
He was overreacting, he knew it, he could feel it even, slowly welling up like blood oozing to the surface of a gash, but that didn't stop the tingling taking over his fingertips or the tightening of his chest, nor did the measured breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Because if Jimmy wasn't anywhere in the house, then where the fuck was he?
There was nothing upstairs except the attic, which he already knew was locked by the way multiple people throughout the night had gotten told off for trying to sneak up there. There was absolutely no way Curly had managed to miss him when he'd toured the house, no matter how much he'd had to drink.
Which meant Jimmy wasn't in the house. Had he left?
The image of a drunk – fuck, maybe more than just drunk – Jimmy blindly stumbling down the road headed god knows where to get hurt or taken advantage of by anyone driving past had barely taken hold in his head before his feet were moving without his permission.
Weaving and shoving his way through anyone unfortunate enough to be in-between him and the front door with little regard to the dirty looks and slurred swears it gains him along the way, Curly gets close enough to settle a hand on the knob before he glances up, and what he sees through the glass window has him falling still.
There's Jimmy, sitting on the stone steps that lead out to the overpacked driveway. But he's not alone. There's someone sitting next to him, less than a foot of space between them.
At first, he mistakes it for another boy, but when the stranger turns and he seeks round cheeks and full lips, he realizes it's a girl, her dark hair cut short and shaggy above her shoulders. He can't make out what she's saying, only faint whispers through the thick dark oak standing between him and the pair, but he can see her lips moving.
He doesn't see if Jimmy answers, can't hear despite how hard he strains his ears to pick up any wayward syllables, but he does see the brunette slam back the last of his drink and go to stand.
He can't, or rather, doesn't want to identify the nauseating twist in his gut when he watches the girl stop and pull him back down by the sleeve of his jacket. She leans in, her shoulder brushing Jimmy's when she pours half the contents of her cup into his, to... what, keep him there longer?
It's only when she turns her head just a bit more to the side and her olivine eyes catch his through the glass that he realizes how long he's been standing there, simply watching them, like a creep or some kind of stalker.
The brief upturn of his lips is forced even to him, the wave he gives her half-hearted at best, but he can't seem to muster the energy for anything more. She blinks, staring at him long enough that an itch begins to travel up his spine, starting at the base of his vertebrae and inching up towards his skull, and he turns on his heel and flees further into the house the moment her gaze detaches from him and drifts back to Jimmy.
He doesn't stick around to try and make out what she says next, if she mentions him at all or if Jimmy looks back to try and catch a glimpse of him when she does. Instead, he marches like a man going to war towards the kitchen. He hovers by the counter, littered with rapidly disappearing snacks and bottles both empty and full, until he sees a face even remotely familiar.
The last thing he remembers before everything goes too fuzzy for recollection is him getting roped into some kind of drinking game, the shots coming at a pace that could put a machine gun to shame.
When Curly wakes up in his bed the next day, no memories of when or how he got there after the party, at first he's afraid he drove home intoxicated.
After learning that no, Jimmy drove them home last night, Curly feels an entirely new brand of terror. He can only thank whatever higher power must have been watching over them last night that he didn't wake up in a ditch, or a hospital, dying from a brain hemorrhage and every bone in his body turned to dust.
He doesn't get even halfway through a stern lecture on the dangers of driving under the influence and its consequences before he realizes Jimmy isn't even pretending to pay attention, and he gives up.
That in and of itself is nothing unusual. Par for the course, really. It only took a year or two for Jimmy to give up any and all pretenses of being a 'good kid,' within Curly's presence at the very least. No, what catches his attention is why Jimmy isn't paying attention.
Phone in hand, thumbs moving rapidly across his screen, Jimmy is giving whoever it is he's texting an amount of undivided attention he hasn't seen him give... anything, frankly. The only thing that came close would be the first video game him and Curly ever played together, just a month or two after they permanently moved him in. It's a memory held dear and permanently seared into Curly's neurons.
It's been so long now that he can't even remember what game they were playing, what it was called, or even what it was about. But he can remember the look on Jimmy's face, the way he tried to hide the smile overtaking him whenever Curly let him win, and he remembers most of all the feeling of pride at being the one to put it there.
The thought of that attention now being on whoever was on the other side of that screen does something strange and uncomfortable to his stomach, heavy and roiling like the wriggling of insects, like larvae have taken up residence within the gaps of his intestines and lungs. It's that feeling, and the knowledge that Jimmy doesn't have any friends, not ones that he would care to text so eagerly, that gets Curly to ask.
"Who's that?" He waits until dark eyes glance up at his face to nod towards the phone in his hand.
A pink tongue swipes across Jimmy's bottom lip, wetting the cracked skin, dry despite the many times Curly's has offered him chapstick, and he quickly tears his gaze away once he realizes he'd been staring much too intently.
"Why do you care?" Jimmy grumbles back, defensive, angling the screen away from Curly and towards his own chest as if the older teen was about to steal it from him.
The reaction was... confusing, though shouldn't have been all that surprising. Everything Jimmy did nowadays confused him, despite the perhaps unnecessary amount of time he spent thinking about him, his mannerisms, and the things he did and said any given day.
It wasn't his fault Jim was so hard to figure out, though, now was it? He wouldn't occupy so many of Curly's thoughts if he was more straightforward.
"Well, I don't. Just curious." Was his response, kept carefully neutral in an attempt to not agitate or scare Jimmy away by being too intense in one direction or another.
It seems to work, since Jimmy shrugs a shoulder, all faux nonchalance that he always thought gave him a mysterious, brooding aura. Curly refused to be at fault for how endearing he found it, whenever he tried so hard to come off as cooler than he was.
"No one special. Just a girl I met at the party last night." The words aren't spoken to the blonde directly, but rather to the screen in front of him, dismissive as he scans the text that just came in.
Anything Curly may have said to that is crushed by his teeth clamping together with a soft 'click,' jaw snapping shut again when the brunette doesn't bother to wait for him to say anything, just turns and trudges out of the living room to head to the safety of his bedroom.
The only thing he has to keep him company in the empty room is the sound of Jimmy's door slamming shut. Well, that and Polle, the tabby padding down the hall after, presumably, Jimmy kicked him out of his room. He bent down, running a hand over the top of his head between his ears, fur like velvet under his fingertips.
Well, at least he had this. And it was almost the same, knowing he was touching something that was Jimmy's, touching it in the same spot, same manner he's seen him do a hundred times.
With gentle hands he carefully lifts Polle off the ground, cradling him securely in his arms as he makes his way over to the couch. There, with his legs crossed and the feline curled securely in his lap, he wisps his fingers up and down along a bristling back, tracing the stripes that run perpendicular to each bump of tiny spine, his efforts rewarded with syrupy sweet purring each time.
Like this, it's easy to imagine that the warmth of Polle's fur seeping into his hands was residual heat from Jimmy's own.
Yeah, this would do for now.
Authors Note: the girl is NOT ANYA. honestly, none of the other characters will probably appear.
Not because I don't love them, I DO (Anya especially,) but they don't deserve to be subjected to these twos insanity any more than they already have in canon, and I would feel personally guilty if I wrote them in.
So, anytime I need a character to drive the plot, like the girl from the party, it will be played by an OC. Sorry if you were hoping to see any of them!
Guess who's back?! Yeah, sorry for being gone so long. I come baring gifts of Adopted Brothers AU JimCurly. This is gonna be a multi-chapter thing,nothing explicitly JimCurly happens in this post, but we'll get there eventually!
Warnings: a LOT of GRAPHIC thoughts of self-harm and violent thoughts in general, mostly against Curly. Misogyny. Intentional mild woobifying of Curly (it's Jimmy's POV, sorry guys). Drug use (casual mentions of Oxy and acid, never in detail). Basically, Jimmy is a mentally ill Incel.
Jimmy Zare was fucking miserable.
Sure, his life was objectively fine. Good, even. A nice house with a big yard, food always stocked in the kitchen, even his own cat. A farcry from how his life had been before he'd been adopted.
So then why did it feel like his brain was melting out of his skull?
Day in, day out. Open eyes, not knowing how to feel that he'd woken up. take a piss and debate brushing his teeth. Usually decide it's a waste of time and move on to breakfast, for him and Polle. Usually cereal for him, and a can of what looks like a mushy brown hockey puck for the cat. Then, let Curly drive him to school.
Eat lunch alone or, even worse, be forced by Curly to sit at his table with all the vapid fanboys he calls friends. Get home after spending hours wanting to bash his forehead on the edge of a desk until his brain matter splattered all over the tits of the whore that always sits next to him in math.
Maybe pop an oxy he bought off another random loser in school once he got to his room, stay there the rest of the day to avoid the dead fish eyes of his 'mom' and the disapproving glares of his 'dad,' play video games until it was time for dinner.
That was his routine. And it was fine for a year or two, while the novelty of just having a stable roof and real, home cooked meals was still fresh. But that novelty wore off long ago, and it had been bugging him more and more the last few months. It got him thinking. Thinking about shit other than what they'd be having for dinner or what he wanted for his upcoming birthday.
Shit like what would happen if he stabbed that stupid smile off Curly's face, right in the middle of the school hallway, slipping a switchblade right into his trachea.
Or if he finally told that slut of a teacher in Chem what exactly he was thinking when she called on him, knowing every damn time that he hadn't been paying attention for shit.
Or if he popped all the pills he had stashed in his sock drawer and let himself fade away, covered in a waterfall of red from his limp mouth.
Y'know, things like that. just to spice life up a little.
The thoughts were fine, at first. Just passing flits in the peripheral of his mind, and only when he was already pissed off about something. And that was fine.
Everyone had thoughts like that, right? Brief flashes of something you could do, if pushed too far. Like images from an alternative universe, of a different you in a different time.
But it wasn't until he was back at home one afternoon, scraping a can of wet mush onto a plate for Polle, and the fleeting thought of how the cats neck would snap if he stomped on its head hard enough rose up in graphic detail into his mind that he felt something... unpleasant. a little jolt of a squirming, wriggling something twisting in his stomach, hands stalling and twitching in mid-air.
He set the can and fork down, splattering a brown, gooey slime on the granite counter his mom had just finished wiping down and thought, for the first time in his life, that maybe something was wrong with him.
He decided not to dwell on it. Decided he had better things to worry about, like getting Curly to shut up and stop pestering him about if he wanted to hangout with his friends at the fucking mall. No, Curly, he did not want to spend hours pretending to find any of your braindead jock friends or whore girlfriend funny, thank you very much.
Well, that was what he thought, and said, until he caught the dejected set of the blondes eyes and the wet cat slump of his shoulders. And it was only because he knew the other teen would be a pouty, whiny bitch all day about what he said that made him reconsider.
So there he was, sitting at a table in the food court, not even bothering to try and speak as slobbering dude-bros and their shrill, squeaky girlfriends clinging to them sat on all sides of him. He knew they'd just ignore him, talk right over him like his words were nothing but white noise, like he wasn't even there and could vanish into a cloud of stardust at any time.
He'd really debated popping a tab of acid before he came, make things even slightly more interesting.
But, the last time he went out in public tripping balls, He'd had a panic attack so bad he woke up in the hospital with a gash from his switchblade that went all the way up his forearm starting at the wrist. Curly had spent the next three days with constant tears in his eyes, and he wound up grounded for a whole month.
So, he decided against it. He'd rather not be made to talk to another shrink.
But he was really starting to regret it. There was only so much of Curly and his friends talking for hours about literally nothing that he could take. Just as he was considering putting the fork he'd been using to pick at a salad through the meat of his hand, imagining the way the blood would well up around the prongs and stain the white of the table below like a massacre in the snow, he heard his name.
His head shot up, the utensil previously in his hand clattering with a rattle of metal on ceramic that made his ears twinge, and he wished he'd just gone through with it when nothing but a lame "huh?" fell out of his startled mouth.
"A party. Tomorrow. You wanna come?" Curly repeated, eyes like white stars set into his skull when they caught the fluorescent glow of the overhead lights. A cursory glance revealed what all of Curly's friends thought of him attending, the not so subtle looks they were all sharing around the table.
And Curly, either oblivious to it all or willfully ignoring all of their displeasure, sat across from him with a steady, expectant smile aimed right at him. What a bad fucking friend.
"Yeah, sure." He droned, putting no effort or enthusiasm into the reply. Why would he?
He already knew this one would be like all the others Curly bullied him into tagging along on. Where he'd sit in a corner and sulk, or follow his broth- the older boy around like a lost dog. And neither option was preferable.
But, comparing it to the blank walls of nothing in his room that were waiting for him at home, with games he'd beaten all at least once and laundry cluttering every available surface, making him more claustrophobic by the day, it was at least something to break up the monotonity.
And that would have to do for now.
Jimmy got all of three steps into the door when him and Curly got home before the blonde was literally fucking accosting him. The hand that had settled on his shoulder was gone before Jimmy even had time to turn and glare at him for it, which meant Curly wasn't as braindead as he thought and could actually learn something.
Their report cards not need mentioning. School was bullshit anyway. Jimmy with his smattering of Cs and Bs, and Curly with his all As. And a single B in English that Jimmy made sure to bring up as often as possible. Someone had to keep the great Curly humble, now didn't they?
Somehow, as Jimmy had gotten lost musing on that, Curly had managed to corral him into his room without him even noticing, feet having moved on autopilot. It was only once he blinked and zoned back in that he realized what he was even standing in the middle of Curly's bedroom for.
The dumb blonde was elbow deep into his wardrobe, rummaging around for who knows what, and it was only once Jimmy paid enough attention to what he was chattering about that he caught on.
"The hell?" Jimmy murmured, the distaste as audible in his voice as it was on his face, the words cutting off the older teen in the middle of him going on about color theory and the way certain colors would clash with Jimmy's skintone, "I'm not wearing your clothes, Grant."
The stupid look Curly beamed the brunette with, all big, sad sapphire eyes that were way too shiny to be normal for a human, only served to set that statement into stone.
"Oh, well- are you sure? I mean, I just..." all that blabbering ran out of steam pretty quickly when he failed to find the words he was looking for, instead giving up and just gesturing vaguely to what Jimmy was wearing.
This prompted him to glance down at himself.
He saw his usual getup; a black hoodie that hadn't been washed for a week and had been worn every one of those 7 days, and a pair of old jeans that hadn't been on his body nearly as long, but had more than one strange, unidentified stain marring the fabric.
He looked back up, offended.
"What of it?" He prompted, a touch accusatory. He could feel heat prickling in his chest already, stomach boiling.
The several seconds of silence that followed the question only made the feeling in his stomach worse. A sort of fickle, flighty knot that coiled in on itself infinitely like an ourobouros. It would take him a while after this conversation to realize he'd been feeling... an emotion. Gross.
"Look, will you just- I think I have a shirt you would really like, would go well with those jeans Uncle Mike got you last Christmas." Curly talked as he turned back around as if Jimmy hadn't even said anything, as if his words had gone in through one ear and out through the other, passing through that empty goddamn skull like smoke on the water.
Jimmy wanted nothing more in that moment but to pick up the heavy paperweight he knew sat on Curly's desk, and crack his head open with it like an egg. Watch blood trickle out like a ruptured yolk.
He knew it was there because he was the one who had given it to him, the first Christmas he had gotten adopted. Back when he'd actually been grateful. It was solid metal, a strange, lumpy, vaguely dinosaur-esque thing. The only thing he bothered to bring with him when CPS took him from his old home.
Grateful. Hah, funny thing to think back on now, considering-.
That thought was ruptured like a blood vessel when soft fabric pelted him in the face, and Jimmy realized something must be genuinely wrong with him for him to be thinking nearly this hard. Was he seriously that bored, lately?
He barely caught the shirt before it fell to the floor, looking between it and Curly's awaiting smile as his brain caught up to what just happened.
"Did you not fucking hear me?" He spat, blinking. Indignant.
"I did." Was all he got back. What the fuck.
It took the brunette an embarrassingly long about of time to wrap his head around the sheer audacity of what was happening, but frankly, nothing like it had ever happened before, so give him a damn break. It was Curly who broke the silence again, giving an impatient little wave of his hand.
"Go try it on. I think it'll fit nice, but i wanna make sure." Delivered all with that infuriating smile, all big like he actually cared, with perfectly white teeth that Jimmy was imagining streaked and sticky with congealing blood more and more often these days.
He savored that thought, and the mental image it conjured of that perfect set of canines with a nice big chip down the middle, gums torn and bleeding, as he turned and made his way to his room to do as he was told.
my favorite thing about this post is that a handful of people have gone "oh wait! this is tangible proof that i don't need to be embarrassed about leaving a lot of comments!! i'll stop being so ashamed!" YES!! ao3 authors basically universally will die for people who comment spam. we love to see it and we do not find you weird or annoying At All.
think about it this way: we ourselves are weird enough to have spent several hours, days, or Months writing down this story. we are weird enough about the content to do that! why on Earth would we be mean and judgmental toward people who care enough to get excited about reading it?? we shared it Specifically For You To Get Excited About!
I am not dead. Shocker, I know. A little update: over the past year or so I've almost been homeless about six times, which, unsurprisingly, really fucked up my motivation to write lmao.
Fear not, I'm in a much more stable situation right now, which hopefully stays that way, and with it returns my motivation to write.
To that one unfortunate soul who made a request of me, only for me to disappear, I sincerely apologize and hope you'll be glad to know I'm getting back on that because I've had ideas for it that I really like.
To the rest of those reading this, I've recently gotten into Wincest so if you don't like that then block the tag or block me lmao cuz I really wanna write for it. I'm still writing for jeresquip and waltjesse though, so if you're here for that then stick around.
Thank you for reading, and again I apologize for such a long hiatus!
#1 for the fanfic asks pls. just fell into waltjesse and i look forward to the gut churning rot that follows
Awe, thank you so much for the ask!
Usually I just jump straight into writing and don't think too hard on it beforehand, as I find that it helps the creative juices flow longer. Otherwise I'll just start to overthink and get lost in the daydreams lmfao.
Though, if I get stuck on a certain section, thinking it out can help me get back on track.
I hope you enjoy your time in the Waltjesse tag, we're all horribly mentally ill and chronically sexy here.
#1 for the fanfic asks pls. just fell into waltjesse and i look forward to the gut churning rot that follows
Awe, thank you so much for the ask!
Usually I just jump straight into writing and don't think too hard on it beforehand, as I find that it helps the creative juices flow longer. Otherwise I'll just start to overthink and get lost in the daydreams lmfao.
Though, if I get stuck on a certain section, thinking it out can help me get back on track.
I hope you enjoy your time in the Waltjesse tag, we're all horribly mentally ill and chronically sexy here.
Just a lil something I pumped out in like, 20 minutes. It has not been extensively edited, I proofread it once, set your standards very low lmfao.
TWs: vague descriptions of gore and murder, toxic relationships, Waltjesse and Walter White are both their own trigger warnings lmfao.
Jesse was frozen, warm blood on his skin growing cold and tacky, leaving a sickening film over his hands and forearms.
A man, tied up to a chair, sat in front of him.
He barely resembled a man anymore, though.
Eyes bulging, jaw hanging open, teeth and gums ripped and bleeding.
Mr. White stood next to Jesse, hands on his hips, as if admiring his handiwork. Like a father building his son a treehouse might look after days of work.
Jesse didn't flinch when Mr. White finally looked over at him. Mr. White nodded once, silently, as if in approval. As if proud of what Jesse had done.
As if Jesse hadn't done it entirely because he told him to.
The horror curling in Jesse's gut gave way to a warmth that made him want to throw up, as if he could physically purge the part of him that responded to Mr. White's praise without fail.
When Mr. White finally finished cleaning up and made to leave Jesse followed right behind without a word needing to be said, invisible leash tightening around his throat and dragging him along.
They didn't speak as Jesse drove, air tense and charged. Nor did they when Jesse eventually stopped in front of Mr. White's condo.
Everything was still in those seconds before Mr. White opened the passenger door, before he unclipped Jesse's leash and granted him a brief moment of freedom in the form of his absence.
Jesse watched as Mr. White walked up to his front door. Watched as he walked inside and closed it behind him. Only then did Jesse drive off.
His hands clenched on the steering will, white knuckle tight, to stop them from trembling.
Even now he could still feel the phantom sensation of someone else's blood on his hands, dripping from his skin, staining his soul.
Jesse was revolted, but he would do it again, as long as Mr. White looked at him like that again. Like Jesse had done something of value. Something good.
That night, as Jesse lied in bed, other side cold and sending chills up his arms, he tried to forget what he'd done that day, a routine he's becoming very familiar with, and instead wrapped himself in the idea that he meant something to someone like a blanket.
The just out of reach fantasy that Mr. White cared.
I feel bad for leaving you guys high and dry for so long, so here's a small snippet from a soon to be finished Waltjesse Wip.
"Mr. Whi-?" A hand was suddenly clasped around his mouth, eyes widening in a confusing mix of excitement and terror. Jesse stepped back, trying to evade the hand, but Mr. White easily followed him, getting him absolutely nowhere. He opened his mouth, sticking out his tongue and swiping it in one long, slow, stroke across Mr. White's palm, hoping to gross him out or some shit, but instead the hand squeezed his cheeks roughly, almost in punishment.
Jesse was horrified at the almost-whimper he let out in response.
When Mr. White spoke the sound travelled through him, the rough rumble moving up his spine in a slow, molten slither, between the gaps of his vertebrae and nestling deep into his brain.
"Now Jesse," that condescending lilt did wonderful, confusing things to him, heart rate spiking in response, "I have been patient with you, truly I have, and you've done nothing to show your appreciation for it. Considering how immature and childish you've been acting today, I think I deserve an apology. Wouldn't you agree?"
Hey! Great fic! I'll be looking forward that omegaverse too :D
Thank you, I really appreciate you letting me know you liked it! And I'm cooking up that fic, just..very slowly lmfao. (I'm not the best at writing large amounts in one sitting, but I appreciate the patience!) 💜💜💜
