Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/350182.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Withnail_&_I_(1986)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Marwood/Withnail, Withnail/OMC
  Character:
      Peter_Marwood, Withnail, Mr._Mitchell, young_Withnail
  Additional Tags:
      Creepy_pedophila, Curry, Rape/Non-con_Elements
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-03-03 Words: 1317
****** Ghastly ******
by skinsuit
Summary
     Withnail lounges in bed in a half drunken stupor trying to wank. But
     his mind keeps going back to the first time he got utterly drunk and
     first time he had sex.
Ghastly.
Was it a dream memory or dream or nightmare Withnail was having now. He was
thirteen and reeling drunk for the first time, so utterly pissed he was unable
to move or even speak. Mr. Mitchell was carrying him to the bed. Mr. Mitchell’s
bed. He remembered that through the haze he was so embarrassed that he’d gotten
so out of control on so little brandy. He’d been sick on Mr. Mitchell’s carpet.
Now he felt so hot, clammy sweat on his brow and his head was swimming,
everything blurring around him.
“I’m sorry sir,” he muttered. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright. You’re just not used to brandy.” Mr. Mitchell had said kindly.
“You were brillaint my boy, we all loved you in the play. Besides this your
first time having a full glass.”
 
“It was good, thank you,” He said, everything was still swimming and Mr.
Mitchell was double and blurred.
Mr. Mitchell had just given him the brandy to congratulate him on doing so well
as the Dane in Hamlet in the school play. And now he’d gone and made ass of
himself. In his memory he recalled thinking that it was so kind of Mr. Mitchell
to let him stay here. He was small enough then to be carried, still a runt.
That summer he’d have a growth spurt and shoot up like a weed, but for now he
was spindly thing, all elbows and knees and fragile points.
Mr. Mitchell laid him in the bed. Withnail opened his mouth to apologize. Mr.
Mitchell did a strange thing, he stroked his cheek. Then he bent low and kissed
him on lips.
“Oh, my boy. You are so lovely,” he said. “I couldn’t resist any longer.”
Withnail didn’t know how to feel, the brandy was making things, blurry still,
it feel good but it was awful at the same time. The way Mr. Mitchell was
touching him felt nice but he didn’t know what to do... His limbs were so heavy
from the drink, and he didn’t think he could move or speak, even though he
might want to. Mr. Mitchell kept kissing him and had undone his shirt and was
touching his chest, running a finger up and down the length of it. It felt
so... he had no idea how it happened. So indescribable he gave a groan-- the
only sound he could make. He was scared, and so drunk. His head was spinning.
The sensations felt good, but Mr. Mitchell wasn’t the one who should be doing
this. A few hours ago Mr. Mitchell had been like a favorite uncle. Now Mr.
Mitchell was touching the front of his trousers stroking... him and reaching
for the zip.
And in 1969 the man Withnail rose from his dirty sheets with a shudder. He
didn’t like getting out of bed. He had resolved that today would be spent,
drinking in bed, naked and possibly scratching any itch that might show up. If
there were too many he would begin to worry that Danny might have brought in
fleas. But that damned memory had come back like sick after a night on the
town. He had been trying for something good, something sexy, so he could have a
lazy morning wank. He hardly did these days, it wasn’t like his penis responded
much to anything usually. And when he felt horny, he would be too drunk, that
he even felt anything sexual. And then of all the sex he’d had that first time
had shown up. He wasn’t sure after all these years if it had to been right or
wrong. And looking back on the times he’d had sex he’d been drunk or high,
depressing fucking thought.
He took a pull on the nearest open bottle, and reflected that lately there
hadn’t been much sex at all. Lying back, he was pretty sure his flatmate
Marwood would probably part those pretty legs given enough drink, touched him
in the right place. Easy as falling off a log. Where was Marwood anyway? He’d
had an bloody audition earlier. Withnail wondered, why can’t get I an audition?
It was because Marwood had that soft lovely brown hair, those big pretty eyes,
that mouth, and that broad hairless chest... not to mention when Withnail had
walked in on him in the bath... Speaking of which, there was a stirring. Well
look what woke up. He looked down at his waist, and yes there it was, an actual
erection. He reached down and begin to tug at it. At first it felt good, as he
thought of all things he’d do to Marwood and how hard he’d fuck that tight
little arse of his. However as the minutes began to go on and on. It was
getting tedious and sore, the hard-on wasn’t going away. Oh, he wanted to come,
spend, blast his mind away with an orgasm-- even a small weak one would do. He
kept rubbing, hard it was hurting. In the corner of eye he spotted a bottle he
knew was empty, and an idea came to him. The glass was sturdy enough. Why not?
Something up his arse might just be the thing needed. He grabbed at bottle with
one hand, got it and...
He was thirteen again and naked, Mr. Mitchell had stroked and sucked his young
body into excitment. Mr. Mitchell was over him, between his legs, holding his
legs. Mr. Mitchell’s penis looked so big, red, purple and filled with veins.
“This will hurt at first, but you will come enjoy it.” And it DID hurt, it hurt
like damn it, even the booze didn’t numb him enough.... He felt himself began
to cry like a girl. Mr. Mitchell kissed him and was still inside, still gently
thrusting and he was right and it didn’t feel so bad.
“FUCK!” And the bottle went across the room and smashed against the wall. Well,
so much that erection was gone now, limp as a dead fish. Speaking of which,
hadn’t he told Marwood to get fish and chips, and not curry? He hated curry. He
found a bottle of vodka with a good quarter of it left, and swallowed it a
fluid motion. He felt comforted, warm, happy, for want of a better word. The
world was fading away now. Perfect, he hated the fucking world. The last thing
he did was draw the sheet over himself.
It was dark when there was knocking at his bedroom door. Bloody Marwood.
“Withnail, I’ve got food,” Marwood said.
“Go away,” He growled back.
“And some other things,” said Marwood. “A bottle of Teacher’s scotch for one.”
Withnail got out of bed, fighting the hang over, and pulled on his normal
outfit, slicking down his hair. Marwood was on the couch. He had gotten a
bloody curry: naan, rice, and some other foreign spicy muck that made
Withnail’s mouth burn and digestive tract kick him.The naan wasn’t so bad,
though. Withnail grabbed it and the bottle of Teacher’s.
“You fucker, I told you not to get curry,” he said.
“It was on the way,” said Marwood. “Besides, you’re eating it.”
He’d eaten two slices of naan and slugged back a fifth of the bottle. Bloody
awful scotch. But he was getting legless and that was the whole purpose of it,
right?
“It’s only fit for wops and darkies. I have no idea why you get it.” Withnail
said. In truth, he nothing against Indians, just their food.
“It’s cheap and I like it,” Marwood said. “Besides I had enough left to get a
bag of weed.”
Withnail smiled like weasel. “Really. From Danny, yes?”
“Yes,” Marwood said.
“The food will be better after a smoke,” Withnail said. “How was your
audition.”
“They seemed to like me,” Marwood said. “But I don’t know if that means
anything. How was your day?”
“Utterly ghastly,” said Withnail.
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