Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/443236.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Gamzee_Makara/Lil_Cal, Lil_Cal/Gamzee_Makara
  Character:
      Gamzee_Makara, Lil_Cal
  Additional Tags:
      Humanstuck, dubcon, Dubious_Consent, Psychological_Trauma, Pre-
      Established_Relationship, Abusive_Relationship, Anal_Sex, noncon, Rape,
      Verbal_Abuse, Rimming
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-06-25 Updated: 2012-07-11 Chapters: 3/? Words: 8956
****** Puppetkind Specibus ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Definition for manipulation: exerting shrewd or devious influence
     especially for one's own advantage; "his manipulation of his friends
     was scandalous".
***** Chapter 1 *****
You notice that the red flapper on the mailbox has discretely been lowered as
to not garner any unnecessary attention. The plaque that reads “strider” is the
slightest bit crooked, like the welcome mat; like the way your mouth shifts
when the doors are already all unlocked for convenience— your convenience. The
house is uncharacteristically placid. You feel like you’re disturbing every
speck of dust from its rest when you open the screen door and it presses
against your form with its loaded spring ready to slam. With a tight grip on
it’s handle, you make sure to close it as close to quiet as you can as you step
beyond the front door.
It smells like dryer sheets and cinnamon, a bit too homey for you. It’s
fabricated. Walking in, you know that every single fucking thing you set your
eyes on is there for a specific purpose.
The empty oak wood table is the place where you rest your backpack, weighed
down by fifth period world history and seventh period chemistry. The shoulder
from which your backpack once hung aches from abuse. For once you wished that
maybe you’d get something done today, or at least cut straight to the chase
instead of the little games he likes to act out— as if it’s supposed to get you
wet. You can only play through the same boring predestined ending in a video
game so many times before you’ve learned to recite it line by line.
Ahh, you’re home. When’d you get here? Got any homework? Let me help you with
your dick.
The television that’s on is the place where your attention is supposed to go.
It’s existence is a fraud. It’s a means to hide intent with accident, and the
volume is turned down far too low. Sometimes when he touches you, you have fun
trying to ignore him and play a little game where you try to read the lips of
the people on the screen. If he’s feeling extra diabolical, he might put on
some afternoon cartoons.
The Ikea corner couch is the place where you’re supposed to sit, normally
already occupied by your boyfriend. You prefer that term. It softens his
fingers. It doesn’t hurt so much, and it widens the holes in your mind where
you attempt to forget what reason is and the notion that it’s a part of your
dwindling humanity. He wouldn’t know a thing about humanity and you wish you
still cared. At least he knows a few things about chemistry. You have a test on
Monday you can’t afford to flunk, and you’ve got an entire weekend to study.
For the love of fuck, you really just want to study.
“Oh, well hey there, Gamz. Didn’t see you there,” beckons the boy too many
years young to be speaking to you as if you're his little scout, home from
school, ready for a weekend of fun with your grand ol’ dad.
You smile and lift your bony wrist with a two fingered wave toward the kitchen.
It’s a ghost of the smile you used to make. Even from across a room, there’s no
mistaking the look in those sharp baby blue eyes— like God did some shitty
photoshop on those oculars before shoving him out of his mother’s uterus.
The wall behind the couch is cut in half with the kitchen counter splayed over
it. Sitting there are the envelopes from the mailbox. They aren’t opened, just
sitting there looking curious. You think of picking them up for a moment, just
to sift through them when Cal is right beside you. Despite how lean and lanky
you are, Cal is leaner, and every bit of tall as he is lankier. Arm in arm, you
always make up this strange arrangement of bones; jagged elbows and shoulders,
deadly shoulder blades and clavicles, except for Cal’s face. He’s always
managed to keep that boyish appearance that is somewhat endearing in an older
guy. It’s round with a nose you used to love honking between your fingers;
‘used to’ being the operative words.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” he chirps like an inquisitive bird.
This is a hard question to answer considering you haven’t even picked up the
letters yet. At the moment, your hand is fingering dead air. You’re almost
frustrated.
“Not a motherfuckin’ thing.”
“Then why don’t you sit down so I can help you with your homework?”
His answer is immediate. The sincere smile on his face betrays the feeling in
your gut, when your cherry brain stem falls into the cherry pit of your
stomach. You try to remember this little, whatever the hell you’ve made in your
mind just now. This pun, or metaphor, for the next time you ever feel like
laying down some sick lines. Lately you’ve lost the gumption. It takes the
company of your best bro to function.
Ha, there’s another one.
The color of the couch is ‘sivik yellow.’ You remember this because that’s the
shade of Cal’s hair. Whenever you’re on this couch, you feel like gagging. It’s
such a nasty color. The muslin fabric draped over it is more transparent than
the charade you both put on every weekend and it does nothing to disguise that
hideous color.
He’s more anxious than you. Like, motherfucker, we both know you ain’t that
excited to do some tenth grader’s homework. Still, he opens your bag up with
haste and leafs through it until he finds the familiar textbook. It’s a dark
blue. The spine is decorated with a DNA sequence while the cover depicts an ice
berg and an icy cold ocean. There is a disturbance in the water and the liquid
is popped up like something’s been dropped into it with reverberation waves
around it.
You think that’s a really stupid thing to put on a chemistry book and think
that putting some funky looking vials on the front with a mad scientist would
make this shit more interesting. Maybe if you act really intrigued in your
work, he’ll buy it. Maybe.
“So, do you have any exercises or study sheets? Did the teacher bring home
anything that I should see?”
That is worded SO motherfucking weird. You want to scream at him that he’s your
boyfriend, not your father, not your guardian, not someone that ‘should see’
anything the teacher gives you as if he’s obligated to for some reason. Instead
you keep your mouth shut, because he at least asks. You remember why you’re
here in the first place. Ah yes.
The old man couldn’t give a shit less.
“Nah,” you say coolly. “She just went at sayin’ how we supposed to study at
this shit, cause come Monday is test time.”
Cal stares at you in that way he so often does. You think that he’s thinking
when he does this. He doesn’t say anything at first and his expression is so
vacant. You can’t read an inch of it. It’s always too short to investigate any
further, but long enough that every single disc in your spine does a double
take.
“Alright. Why don’t we get started then, Gamz,” he says cheerfully without
hardly any shift in his jaw.
There is no consulting with you or using the documents in your bag as
reference— only licking his thumb and forefinger and thumbing through to the
right page. He turns to the correct page of today’s lesson and your head nods
lazily. You want to know how he knows but don’t ask.
As per usual, he will pat his lap and insist that it’s easier if he’s right
over your shoulder. Whenever he does this, he always makes you feel trapped
without even using force. His existence is this damp black cloak that grips
you. Cal is a polite anchor, except when he’s not. Right now, when you pretend
to not notice the manner in which he’s driven attention to his lap and you
begin to reach for your notebook, he clinches your wrist. It’s always too tight
to be loving and too loose to bruise, most of the time.
And then he pulls you into his thighs. You really do hate the color orange, you
consider at that point. Ugliest of all the motherfucking shades.
“You can reach everything easier if you sit here,” he insists toothily.
The whole house can smell fresh and innocent but he still reeks. Cal always
smells like frankincense and plastic.
With the notebook in your lap, you use it as an excuse to shove your thighs
together and rest against it like a desk just tilted at a dumb angle.
“Aight. So… The molar mass of elements is found by, lookin’ at the atomic mass
of the element on the periodic table. For example, if you want—”
You stop when Cal rests his chin on your shoulder, though more accurately, you
just stutter, as stopping would cause him to ask you what’s wrong, and there’s
no easy way to let him know that you’re well versed in how this story goes.
“If you want,” you begin again, deciding to write these words down in your
shitty handwriting. “To find the molar mass, of… carbon, you would find the
atomic mass of carbon… and… equal to… the molar mass… grams per mole.”
It is obvious that you don’t know how to study. Are you supposed to write down
words on a page and memorize them? Do you make flash cards? Do you just read
the page over and over again? Cal is just hanging over your shoulder in that
way that you find so unnerving as you scribble and scribble and— broken pencil.
“Motherfuck,” you cuss; Cal is nose deep in your nape.
And that is all the opening he needs to leave little nips here and there that
cause your eyes to instinctively recoil back toward the flickering screen. It’s
a commercial for some luxury vehicle. You want to think that it’s symbolic for
how you want to get away from this mess, but you can’t think of much of
anything. You drop your pencil and make an attempt for the textbook.
With it in your hands, you continue to read. You are adamant about this.
“There are a few exceptions to this rule. In some cases, the element,”
Cal smiles into your neck. You do not need to blink, and you do not care to
breathe either, though for the sake of your life you do. His palms are pressed
to your shin bones. He resembles oil sticking to you and dripping all over,
getting everything positively ruined.
“The element is usu— usually found in a different form, than just one
unbonded—”
He ruins everything that he touches.
In a swift movement he slides your shins apart and the textbook seated against
your legs falls through to the floor. The book doesn’t close neatly. It rests
in oblique angles with pages being bent the wrong way, like a dead book if that
made any sense. And you really hate yourself when you feel the rise of your
jeans stretch and hold your groin in a tight snug.
This is the reason why you keep your silence. A relationship with Cal is
partial points pleasure and all points improper. It’s always too loving to
question and too hateful to openly desire. That’s the fucking motif with him!
It’s one big void of grey.
You are never too sure of what’s going on. A guilt clutches your gut as his
head is parallel with yours on the upper joint of your arm and his hands run up
your kneecaps. You resemble some horny two headed monster with how close his
skull is to yours, and you have half a mind to roughly nudge your dirty
unwashed locks against his nose. But you don’t.
“H-Hey, brother,” you start, thinking that there may be hope for you yet.
“I knew you were hard.”
The color in your face drains. It doesn’t even deposit into the engorged
anatomy struggling against your trousers. It sinks into the sivik yellow couch
and paints it with today’s flavor of fucked up. You don’t even know how to
refute his claims.
“Yeah but, I ain’t really in the, the motherfuckin’ mood right now,” you say
with your breath catching once, like you’re a few breaths away from
hyperventilation.
You aren’t sure which you despise more, Cal when he’s angry or when he’s
playful. Everything is a fucking joke to him. He’s like a shell of who you used
to be in some backwards reflection where consent and freewill was the final
punchline. He just chuckles, always ending his laughter with his soft little
‘haa haa, hee hee, hoo hoo.’ You know he fucking does that shit on purpose. No
one legitimately laughs that way.
“Yeah you are,” Cal giggles like you’re a child, and it feels as if he meant to
stick ‘you silly willy!’ at the end of that, but instead he just makes out with
your neck, loudly.
His teeth raking against your skin drives an exhale you didn’t realize you were
holding out of you. Cal’s tongue is painting pictures against your jugular and
you ponder if he actually suspects that it will prevent you from noticing where
those handy handsy motherfucking hands are stretching toward. You frown like
the wrecked scrap of juvenescence that you’re sure he takes you for.
“Cal—”
“I love you,” he whispers sweeter than smucker’s jam into your waiting ear.
There’s a part of you that can’t help but yield to him when he does this to
you. Those words put a stopper in your blood pusher and you consider melting
against him like hot wax to slip between his fingers. That’d be so much more
than the dead weight you are now. At least the wax would burn him and render
you completely unusable.
“Sooooo much.”
Without so much as a question, you find yourself sighing in time with the
ministrations of his fingers against your inner thighs. He’s manipulating you.
Amongst the rhetoric that he’s telling you, you lose track of the time and what
your thoughts are doing. They mingle and entertain the little thoughts he
implants.
I love you. I love you. The others? They don’t love you. Hoo, not like I do.
Haa, not like I do. I love you.
If this is all you’ve motherfucking got, you’ll cling onto it.
Your scapula’s flare when you curve into him. He’s pulling at your clothes and
he’s trying to get them off of your body. You want to assist him, but there’s a
certain image you have to uphold. Cal knows this, and the way that you try
fighting movement and merely collapse boneless against him fills him with glee.
You can feel all seven inches of it against your backside. He moves your limbs
for you, and when your pants are off, that’s when he flings you.
And that’s when he takes you.
He’s so cruel. Your face is pressed against the couch, and the television is
out of view.
***** Chapter 2 *****
No matter how much water you splash on your face, you are having trouble
scrubbing off your makeup. At home, a lovely supply of cold cream awaits you
every night. It takes a few seconds of lathering it across your face before all
of it slips off with relative ease. By this point, you are angrily scrubbing at
your cheeks, though it’s not really anger. It’s this watered down snarl that
fades as quickly as it comes. You didn’t lash out in rage often. The
prescription that sat on the side of the bathroom counter more or less ensured
that.
15 mg of olanzapine a day kept you in check. Your eyes, a dark slate grey in
the shitty fluorescents, eyed the bottle with indifference. At first you
couldn’t stand the feeling of that drug in your body. Truth be told, Cal didn’t
like it either, insisting that it changed you. The thought of changing was
scary to you. Needless to say, a concerned friend made sure to ask you on the
daily if you were keeping up with your medication.
You lifted your head up, eying the bits of dark skin peeking out from beneath
the makeup. Once upon a time you think that your dad would’ve blown a gasket
about betraying your heritage, putting that heretical gunk in your facial
pores. Nowadays he really couldn’t give a damn, which you are both thankful for
and annoyed with. You were annoyed with a lot lately.
Grimacing, you were moments away from tearing your flesh in an attempt to get
this ‘dumb juggalo paint’ off. One more comment from a snickering Dave Strider
would mean snapping and brandishing a real hatchet on his head— if only
metaphorically considering you didn’t own one. You wish you did.
I still think it’s fucking weird that you’re dating my cousin.
With an exasperated sigh, you resign yourself to scouring your forehead with a
soggy paper towel, watching as it smears onto the material and yet leaves the
makeup plastered to your skin.
Just don’t sword fight too loudly.
You’re ready to yank your body away from the counter and give up. Cal rests a
hand on your shoulder. When he enters the bathroom, your eyes immediately make
friends with the edge of the counter, losing all momentum. He doesn’t say
anything, merely whistles that tune that sounds so familiar to you in a way you
can’t remember. It’s a tune you’ve always known. He holds out a pink container.
The paper along the sides reads “Jergens All-Purpose Face Cream” and a smile
begins to creep over that face of yours. As soon as Cal notices it, he
flourishes one of his own and sets it down on the sink in front of you,
chuckling all the way.
“Thank ya in kind, motherfucker.”
Cal’s arms slither like poison ivy around your waist, giving a loose hug as he
towers behind you. First his nose nudges the spaces in your spine, and next he
perches his chin back on it’s usual position upon your shoulder. His fingers
mingle with the pockets of your jeans.
“I just came back from the store. I didn’t forget about you, my lil’ clown.”
Your boyfriend showers you in affectionate phrases as he kisses your cheek,
despite the makeup smear. Just as you get around to opening the cream, Cal
plucks a hand out of your pocket to dig around in his own for a second. You’re
sure you know that he’s about to pull out a condom, as ironic as that would be,
and it turns out that you’re right. It’s the cheapest shit you’ve ever seen.
You remain impassive.
“I know you don’t like it when we do it without one.”
“Nah, motherfucker— lubrication. Lubrication is what I don’t like to do
without,” you try to explain as you lather the cream along your fingers,
preparing to smooth it generously over your face. “It didn’t seem to be about
stoppin’ you some motherfuckin’ hours ago,” you bring up in innocent
nonchalance.
As you begin to run the cream over the makeup, you watch as Cal’s face vanishes
behind you in the mirror, pushing his face into your shoulder blades. Cal
resumes hugging your waist and you can feel his head turn. His cheek is against
your column. He’s embracing you like some sort of state fair teddy bear.
“I said that I was sorry, Gamzee. Don’t you hear how sorry I am?”
Months have wore on since you two have been together, so no, you are unable to
hear how sorry he is. The apologetic feelings simply aren’t strong in anything
Cal says anymore, but you don’t have a mind to argue with him right now. You
just nod, giving a low in the throat ‘mhm’ as you rub the black and white swish
from your surface.
All that this really means for you is that you will likely have sex again
tonight, whether you want to or not. Of course, that line is always blurred.
Sometimes you’ve wanted to call it rape, because you tell Cal that you don’t
want it. That’s all that you need to qualify as rape, isn’t it?
You run the towel down the front of your face, taking off all the grease in one
fell swoop.
What about the way that your body begins to bend up into his, and the way that
you inadvertently tug him closer? What about the sensation that jettisons up
your backside, leaving you hungry for more of his touch? You moan against his
scalp, tugging at his hair every time, or your fingers are melted into a pillow
case while you find it most difficult to utter the monosyllabic name. Do the
ends justify the means? Is he allowed to force you if you end up enjoying it to
some degree?
A sick feeling drops into the pit of your stomach as his hands grace it. You’ve
been staring down into the sink for a while now.
“Gamzee?” whispers Cal, and as you look in the mirror, you can see the face of
the boy you fell in love with— his eyes so big and his eyebrows knitting with
concern.
You rub your fingers between your eyes with a groan.
“I’m sleepier n’ a motherfucker,” you say, which isn’t a lie given how late it
is. You were planning on taking a shower before bed but all of your energy was
spent in trying to get the damn paint off your face. Your hair is in messy
black clumps and you are sure that by morning they will be positively dripping
with oil. The slick of oil behind you though is quick to run his hand back
through it, like you’re his little puppy dog. He ruffles it with a smile.
“Come to bed then.”
Cal tugs at you and with nearly no hesitation, you slide with him. He flicks
the light off and seems to lend a wave to the Strider brothers in the living
room. Cal practically raised Dirk and Dave for most of their lives. The least
they could do was give him a living space while he hung between jobs. Cal
smiles, knowing that neither one knows what takes place on that couch. You
enter the room quickly and hope that maybe if you fall asleep fast enough,
you’ll just get to snuggle with him until the sun comes up.
You end up giving him a blowjob, which you should have expected. Cal always
takes advantage of your throat after figuring out you had no gag reflex. You
lazily remember the uncomfortable feeling of his piece pushing down your
throat. Although you didn’t gag or get ill, it made it difficult to breathe.
You were dead silent while he fucked your mouth. You fought to keep your jaw
open and prevent your teeth from raking against him. When he finally came, at
least you didn’t have to taste it. He was much kinder for having bought the
condom.
The clearest portions you can recall are the ache of your jaw when he pulls his
dick out, and the taste of wet paper. Cal stuffed a paper towel in your mouth,
wiping your lips and scrubbing your tongue. Then he kissed you. You can still
hear him saying something about loving you. He whispers it into your lips like
a secret, and you answer with ‘I know.’ He wraps you in his arms and it’s like
you forget all about it. Your head is against his chest and although you feel
smothered, you know it’s better to be over loved than not loved at all.
And you don’t dream. You can’t remember the last time you had a dream— not one
that you can remember to be accurate. So when you wake up in the morning, you
never feel refreshed. It just feels as if you closed your eyes and waited with
baited consciousness until the sun came up.
When it did, it was party time evidently. You woke up to the feeling of Cal’s
body moving from beneath you in a quick jerk. Feeling your mind reel a moment,
your eyes cracked open with a slight headache permeating through your skull.
You can’t see it, but you hear the sound of the bedroom door flinging open, a
soft growl and the door swinging back shut by a heavy hand. Sometimes it dawns
on you just how strong Cal can be. It’s a bit terrifying.
Now he’s pushing his legs into a pair of pants and his body posture betrays the
Cal that you know. It’s the Cal that you fear.
“The fuck’s up, brother?”
“We have guests,” hes says in a low tone that you don’t identify with.
It’s immediately discarded when he takes his eyes back to you. In his defense,
it’s hard to stay in such a turbulent mood when he sees you positioned there in
the bed, massaging your eyes with a gentle morning yawn, so perfectly adorable.
He doesn’t even care about the state of your hair right now. It’s practically
glued around your face with sweat and oil. It only takes a few seconds to feel
disgusted with yourself and suddenly desire a shower. You decide on this,
disregarding the guests.
“I ain’t about to be givin the slightest of motherfucks,” you insist as you
sway your legs over the side of the bed ungracefully and shove the covers off.
You’re so boyish from the waist up. From your belly button is a plethora of
hair that leads down beyond your boxers waistband, and your legs are rather
fuzzy to boot. Cal cringes, but you don’t notice it. It’s oblivious to you that
perhaps he likes the more boyish look, the younger look.
Cal also enjoys the look of bewilderment when he snatches your arm. You do not
make your way to the bathroom. You do not pass ‘Go’, nor collect $200. He
pauses before giving a sultry sort of smile.
“You can shower later. Just get dressed,” he coos before his lips are dangling
precariously before your own. “Before I decide I like you better this way.”
It’s astonishing how even if you don’t have morning wood, Cal is intent on
giving it to you anyways. You give a slight chuckle and place your hands on
your boyfriend’s shoulders. You ignore how close you are to kissing.
“Nah man, I does feel like shit. I’m liking to get about takin’ a shower. I
ain’t goin’ out there all nasty.”
For a bit of time neither one of you say anything, but the look in his eyes is
smoldering you. You make the mistake of looking back down at his lips, and he
saw you look.
The kiss he gives you is almost uncharacteristically gentle. You know it’s
dilatory, but your insides begin to do flips and your nails come into the mix
as they grip his shoulders. He’s moving so slow. The lines in your forehead
relax. As a matter of fact, your entire body just turns to jelly. You can’t
take the look in his eyes, almost wistful in a way that you can’t comprehend.
Cal watches as you squint and produce a small moan, and that’s when he realizes
that he has you.
His lips push in, deepening the contact. You love when he’s like this, it’s so
much more passionate. You’re certain you don’t need to breathe for the next
hour if he keeps it up, and Cal moves closer to you until a thigh is
effectively wedged between your knees. The eyes in your head shut and you
nearly collapse into him. Cal is grasping you, assisting you in staying sturdy
when he lets go of the kiss.
And he just laughs.
“You precious little boy.”
You are definitely flushing, but the smile you wear says you’re so in love.
“Whatever you say, motherfucker. Seducin’ me like this when we both already got
to about knowin’ we can’t do shit right now.”
Cal has his hands on your sides and he makes a humming noise, rocking back and
forth. His eyes are plastered to the ceiling as if he’s deep in thought. You
sway with him.
“Don’t shower now. Shower later when they’re all gone and we’ll have some alone
time,” he says.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew all along that this was just some
clever ploy. It’s hard to say no to those gorgeous blue eyes. You only hoped
that they’d remain gorgeous more often.
After giving a shrug and an empty sigh, you release a hand to scratch your
back.
“Aight then,” you concede.
His body leaves you nearly instantly and he resumes getting dressed. There’s a
pause where you want to defy him but it’s washed over swiftly once he tosses
some clothes your way. Soon you’re dressed in a baggy set of Tripp pants you
bought in the 6th grade and yet still own and a plain black and grey flannel.
“I look motherfuckin’ stupid.”
You do. It doesn’t match at all and it’s all because no one in the fucking
Strider household knows how to do the goddamn laundry. You’re convinced that
your boyfriend is trying to make you look like the most unnattractive thing
anyone’s ever set eyes on before, and you may be right.
To deal with the grotesque state of your hair as of late, Cal merely snatches a
black beanie and fits it over your head. This really couldn’t get much worse.
“You’re so cute,” Cal insists.
Upon stepping out of the room, Cal’s fingers are interlaced with your own. Dave
and Jake are playing video games. Of course, the Strider is poised as if he
couldn’t give a shit less while Jake is hunched over like some sort of troll.
Dirk is right behind his boyfriend like a backseat driver, giving deadpan
instructions on how to win and giving deadpan ‘are you fucking kidding me’s
when Jake can’t understand.
The two blonds don’t give the slightest bit of reverence to you, as if
entranced by the screen. Jake on the other hand seems to warmly welcome a
distraction, literally taking one hand off the controller to wave with a smile.
“G’day Gamzee, Cal. Didn’t see you two when I entered!”
“Focus, English. He’s got you on the run,” Dirk interjects from behind.
“Your ass is grass,” says Dave.
They’re playing Twisted Metal. Dave is always Sweet Tooth the Clown if only to
poke further fun at you. Jake is playing as Dollface, and indeed as prophesied
by Dave, his ass is most definitely grass.
Moving on, you glance into the kitchen. As you’re led in by Cal, you spot
Jake’s friend Aradia. They’re quite adventurous and they’ve invited you to go
spelunking many times before. You don’t know what that is. They say it’ll be
fun, and when it gets dark they’ll get to bivouacking. You don’t know what that
is either and politely tuned them down. It sounds like a lot of dumb work
anyways.
She’s leaned over the counter with a glass of what appears to be lemonade,
watching them play. Her head turns when she spots you rounding the corner.
“Hello Gamzee. You look… different.”
“He looks precious,” Cal utters with a grin, poking the side of your face like
a baby.
You brush off his hand and chuckle.
“Shit, thanks sis. It’s just some new look I’m all about tryin’ out,” you lie
playfully before your mind drips to the question that just occured to you.
“Where’s Tavros at?”
And right on cue, Cal’s grip tightens on your arm. You almost jump.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Tavros asks you if you’re taken your medication today. You slip over a few
words more ineloquently than you usually do when you say no. There is a pause
and you know that while you gaze away to stare at the television screen in the
living room, Tav is wearing a stubborn frown. You ignore it.
The back of Cal’s head catches your attention. It’s terrifying how even when
Cal isn’t facing you, you feel like you’re being watched— like any minute now
his head is going to twist on his shoulders and just take your soul with a
single glance. It isn’t healthy to view your significant other in this sort of
light you think, but maybe that’s what attracted you to Cal in the first place.
He’s not like anyone else. He’s different, and he knows just how to make you
feel special, the way no one has ever bothered to make you feel.
Now they’re playing some first person shooter that you don’t readily recognize.
Each gun shot rumbles in your chest.
“Gamzee, you know that is a very, important thing,” your friend starts up with,
but you keep your gaze averted.
You’re waiting for Cal to shoot a glance back at you, but he doesn’t. Instead
you lift the lemonade to your lips and take a sip so shallow it just feels like
you’re swallowing venom or acid. You imagine your insides turning to goop. It
would serve to explain the unease that is washing over you. It’s like you’re a
dog that’s been trained. You feel like you’ve done something wrong. You’re
waiting for him to give you that look, just for talking to Tavros, just for
saying a damn thing about your medication and yet it never comes. Perhaps a
ticking time bomb or maybe he’s actually preoccupied in that game.
You’re waiting to be punished and you’re almost frustrated when it doesn’t
happen.
Funny thing is, you can’t remember why you’re not allowed to do these things.
You just know that it upsets him, and you’re the bard of doing whatever is
asked of you to avoid unnecessary conflict. You lick your lips and bite your
cup.
“Hey, Gamzee, I’m talking to you.”
“I just ain’t taken ‘em yet today. Don’t mean I ain’t gonna. I woke up just a
motherfuckin’ hour ago,” you explain.
With everything in you, you’re hoping that Tavros just takes that and goes with
it. You continue to take small swigs from the Styrofoam cup in your trembling
fingers and keep your eyes poised on the television screen. It’s more or less
become white noise to your oculars. It’s just a place for you to set your
sights while you more or less zone off.
You know that Tavros doesn’t mean it. You’re almost certain that Tavros doesn’t
mean it when he carries things on. He’s always been rather passive about it,
but stubborn nonetheless.
“I really hope that you aren’t just, lying to me about it.”
Sometimes he just really doesn’t know when to let something drop. With a
grimace spreading across your face, you yank the beanie down a bit on the right
side of your head. You can no longer see that speckled face and the freckles
that decorate the curve in his nose, or the beautiful tan of his Hispanic skin.
You sigh sickly. You used to have feelings for your bro beside you, but you
already knew that he wasn’t about feeling the same way. As time went on, the
emotions faded. You could look the kid in the eyes now without that warm and
drifty feeling filling up your chest. Most of all, you had moved on enough to
get a boyfriend of your own.
No one disliked Cal either. Sure, he was a bit older than you and had already
graduated and all, but no one saw the side of him that you did. None of your
friends warned against any objectionable behavior out of him. It was a burden
you bared alone to say the least, the way he would force you down into the
couch and brand you some piece of property.
Tavros was glad to hear that you had someone in your life.
I’m really happy for you, Gamzee.
You know he doesn’t mean it the way that he says it.
You deserve someone who can actually handle, all your ups and downs.
But it doesn’t stop it from stinging. Nothing can truly distract from it.
“I know you care about me, brother,” you gasp slightly, covering your mouth as
you belch at the end of your sentence.
Exhaling, Tavros laughs and it feels like the tension in the room has
effectively been split in half. Thank God for Aerophagia.
Your head slants and you down the rest of your lemonade, lackadaisically
digging your teeth into the mouth of the polystyrene while Tavros turns to
Aradia. You overhear them speak although you give off the illusion that the
game in front of you is far too sapid to acknowledge a damn thing else. She
says she’s going on the porch to call Terezi. They’re going to go out FLARPing
again. You’ve never been someone to get into roleplaying, much less the level
that they’re on, though you always did admire it.
It turns out it didn’t matter whether or not you were listening. The first
thing Tavros turns to you with is, “Vriska’s going to be there.”
You drop the gag. You heard the whole thing.
“Oh? Ain’t she always there? Like, isn’t that the thing? You ‘n Aradia up and
at Vriska ‘n Terezi?”
“Yeah, and Nepeta sometimes,” Tavros trails off before returning back to his
original point. “I think she likes me.”
You’re really wishing that you still had some lemonade left to sip to further
feign the obvious lethargy that you obviously don’t have.
“Nepeta?” you drone.
“Vriska,” he corrects. “I mean, sometimes she kinda picks on me, but I think
it’s like how, you make fun of that kid you like in school to show that you’re
interested in them?”
“Sounds childish to me, but, okay,” you say, although you’re not exactly sure
that you’re the authority on whether something is childish or not.
“It is, but, we’re a bunch of kids pretending to be other people. How mature
can you be, thinking that you’re a pirate?”
The two of you share a good laugh, though you don’t really mean it. The thought
that your friend is doing the same as you, getting interested in someone of
their own, is a bit unsettling and you don’t know why. You can’t tell if it’s
the idea that he’d be happier with someone who isn’t you, or the idea that his
relationship will be more successful. You completely bite off a portion of your
cup when you see Cal gawking at you. Tav’s laughter is drowned out, and
whatever it is that is taking it under is suffocating you too and you feel like
you’re the only living thing in the room anymore.
The game is over and the television is off. While Dirk and Dave are putting
away the game controllers, Jake slips out the front door to speak to Aradia.
Cal is just staring. You wonder what to say or do. Even Tavros notices the
stare.
“Are you, uh, alright, Cal?”
His head tilts on his neck and he just smiles.
“You look so cute.”
Tavros smirks really wide and his eyes float to mingle with yours as he lifts
his cup to his face and takes a ginger sip. You take notice of this and give
him the slightest of nudges, chuckling although you’re moments from tearing
your hair out.
“Motherfuckers, knock that shit out.”
Something just doesn’t feel right and you want to get out of here.
“Alright, let’s move out,” you overhear from Dirk.
You really don’t mean to sound too eager but it just escapes your mouth like a
cry for help when you go, “Where are you all going?” The lines in Cal’s face
deepen slightly.
“Oh! Uh, Aradia and Tavros are going FLARPing and we’re all seeing a movie. Did
you think about coming with us, Gamzee?” Jake asks, looking so cheerful— the
kind of cheerful you really want to run headlong into to get away from this
hell hole.
Cal stands at his feet and turns to face Jake, the slightest of giggles moving
through him like bubbles through plastic containers with perforated holes.
“We’ll catch up with you later. Gotta freshen up first.”
The stare he gives you is when the bubbles pop.
You feel like you’re being garroted with the clothes adorning your own body.
The mingled voices of farewells echo around you but you stand there while it
sinks in and takes hold of you. You’re alone with him now, and your eyes sink
into the cup in front of you, eying the broken piece you went and spat into it.
You didn’t even tell Tavros and the others goodbye. Like a dumb vegetable you
wore a queasy smile and waited. All of the sound vanished at once with the
closing of the door. It’s locked and it’s a million miles away from you. You
hear him say something but it doesn’t register. You’re shaken from your stupor
when he’s in the kitchen snapping his fingers around your arm.
“Look at me.”
You can’t help it. It happens every time, you’re afraid of him. Most of all,
you haven’t had your medication. It scares you how much he’s disgusted by the
quivering you do, as if it’s something that you can help. For a few seconds,
nothing feels real. You’re looking at him and you try to find love in his eyes.
He’s not angry, impassive to say the least, but it’s there. It’s hate. It’s
hate and all along you’ve known it was hate.
Cal’s head deliberately cranes down in front of you and it’s in that moment
that you think he’s the devil.
“Did you want to leave?”
This is only going to lead into an argument. He’s already decided that he’s
going to hit you and you know it. It’s in the way that his upper arm is
trembling in anticipation while his wrist is staid against the counter. If you
say no, he’s going to call you a liar. He’ll drag you to your knees until your
warm knees and fragile bones meld with the kitchen tile and paint you black and
blue. There’s only so many options open to you. If you say yes, you think that
maybe he’ll spare you for your blatant honesty but there’s no such thing as
being spared. Would you even have the audacity, the guts?
You feel like you’re going to throw up and cry. How do you ask him to love you?
“I just wanna… take my motherfuckin’ shower, man,” you wheeze.
Cal’s face locks up and his mouth gets small, and he mutters something mushed
together through gritted teeth and so much anger. His hand rakes across your
face like a blade. You nearly fall to the floor but he yanks your arm. Cal is
pulling you up. You’re still reeling from the smack. It hit you in the left
side of your face and you’re positive that the stinging you’ve become to
experience is a cut one of his nails inflicted. The breath in your belly is
gouged out when it makes contact with his shoulder. Cal has successfully
hoisted you up with grips tight enough to bruise. You would offer protest if
you could speak but your body isn’t cooperating. You end up working in a swift
kick at your boyfriend’s spinal column just as he makes his way from the
kitchen.
In a twist of events, he doesn’t throw you down on the sivik yellow couch. His
death clutch on you narrows. You recognize the room you’re in only when you’re
thrown onto the floor. The upraised shower step cuts into your leg and your
body crushes in on itself.
“Take your clothes off,” he orders.
That hesitation that you show does not please him and it takes no time for him
to deliver a harsh kick to your stomach. You don’t espy the noise that comes
out of your mouth. While you’re digging your fingers into the shower tile
grout, Cal jerks the shower handle. With the setting all the way on cold the
shower is turned on and you’re suddenly drenched. All of the chilling water
sinks into your clothes and spreads. It clings to your form uncomfortably and
you feel so trapped.
The first thing to go is the dumb beanie you toss off your head. When you can
finally lift yourself from the ground, you can barely see. The lights are off,
but you know that Cal is right behind you shuffling with his own clothing.
You’re shivering badly as your fingers slide over buttons and jerk with unease.
Halfway through with unfastening the flannel and Cal’s hands bolt from behind
to snatch the fabric. Cal pulls you backwards onto your ass, elevating your
arms as he hitches the flannel up and off your body. The native American skin
beneath is oscillating from the cold. Your nipples are puckering and goose
flesh riddles your belly. Nonetheless, you still have your pants on and you
know you don’t need to be asked twice to tear it off your body. The baggy
attire is discarded with a swift unbuttoning and you don’t have time to
breathe.
Your boyfriend swoops you up off the ground entirely with his arms jerking
beneath yours like he’s gonna put you in a full nelson. Instead he halfway
throws your feeble body into the wall and expects it to stay that way when he
comes after you. Gasping for air, you palm the wall in front of you to keep
yourself upright while he presses his naked body against you. He’s the only
warmth you’re going to have, you tell yourself as his wrists push over your
hips and he runs his hands against your thighs. You’re on your tip toes,
whimpering as his hands massage your inner legs, slipping dangerously closer to
your cock with every rub. His lips are against your neck.
Then he seizes your dick, earning a gasp out of you as you foolishly attempt
squirming out of his grasp. The hand that you jerk down to attack his is
snagged and pressed into the wall roughly. You heard a pop and a soft cry
echoes out.
“Cal, stop.”
His ministrations get more powerful as he pumps you, watching over your
shoulder as your erection shows itself in his hand. You’re starting to hate the
way that your body is responding to him. It feels like you’re being betrayed.
“Motherfucker, stop.”
Suddenly you’re rammed up against the wall and your head rattles painfully on
your spine. Your cheekbone is compressed against the frigid tile as his hands
split your legs and he kneels behind you. Cal parts your cheeks and you wait
but nothing happens. The water drips down between your thighs. He speaks to
you.
“Who cares about you?” he asks.
At first you aren’t sure if he’s asking or being cruel. If he is asking, you’re
unable to answer when he sticks his tongue to push against your opening
teasingly. The attempts you make at keeping quiet reduce you to a shivering
mess gasping out weakly every time he presses the tip of his tongue against
you. It feels, good, and you don’t like it. When it gets too much you moan and
clench up, thrusting your hips forward to move away from him. A slight growl is
heard before he spanks you and yanks your hips, forcing you to bend your knees
awkwardly to keep yourself standing.
“Does Tavros love you or do I love you?”
This is cruel.
“Do you think he’d even touch you?”
A few broken sounds scrape out of your throat as your eyes clench up. One hand
has reached up to stroke you gently while the other is intent on shoving its
digits up inside of you. It pushes and probes, wiggling while his tongue
spreads its warmth to your perineum. Your fingers are clawing at the wall and
you’ve grown used to the freezing water that is raining down in coats. It
doesn’t take long for him to find the gland that he wants to abuse. You try not
to audibly let him know when he’s got it, but the delicious way he rubs his
fingertip into it makes your body quake and you grind against him.
Cal chuckles and you can practically feel the sadistic pleasure he’s getting
out of this in the way that he snakes his tongue around your undercarriage. The
small in your back is practically parallel with the floor as you bend forward,
huffing erotically to every stroke of his hands.
“I can’t— Cal I can’t, st-stand…”
Your words drift off as Cal twists his finger so his hand is facing the
ceiling. Once he has a second finger inside of you, his thumb angles itself
against your back bone as if it’s grabbing a hold of your backside entirely;
and then he drags you down. Your fragile legs crumble. Your knees slam into the
wet floor with a caustic crunch and you’re reminded of one of your fingers
possibly being broken when your hands jam themselves into the floor. Cal keeps
the grip on your ass, shaking his fist and your body too.
“You’re mine!” he barks with a rage you’ve never heard before, and you know now
that he was boiling and festering the whole time; just waiting to get you alone
in here just to tear all of your insides apart.
You can’t say anything and so you just nod your head in reply.
Soon he stands at his feet and you wince because he’s grabbing your legs and
pulling you with him. Your body is held up at an angle most uncomfortable. Your
face and hands are plastered to the ground and the corner of the wall while
your hips are aligning with the hips of your boyfriend. It’s like you’re a
wheelbarrow with the front portion totaled, crumpled up and groaning— if it had
a mouth that is. Cal still goes about spreading your rump wide open. Your
anatomy dithers with algor until a warm piece nudges up against your hole. You
know what’s about to happen but you try to block it out. You close your eyes
and you count to an imaginary number.
When the shaft slips in, it tears you wide open. No amount of fingering or
liquid can possibly hope to prepare you, and the way that your body is
rejecting it is only making it worse. You’re so tight, Cal has trouble pushing
in and out. He slaps you and he screams at you to loosen yourself up. If only
it were that easy, you’d relent to him. You can only try to enjoy it to some
degree but it’s just not happening this time. It hurts so much. It feels like
your insides are raw. Your neck hurts from the position that you’re in. You’re
certain that your legs are bruising like bananas in Cal’s grasp. The way he
groans and pants makes you sick. You yelp as he slaps his hand against your
back. He wants you to push yourself up.
“Please, Cal stop it. I’m sorry. Pleaaase!” you whine.
“H’it hurts, man,” you breathe.
The pleading you do falls on deaf ears as he pounds deep inside you. Soon you
can tell that he’s getting close when he starts huffing like a dog in heat.
Cal’s leaning in further with every single thrust and you feel your body
bending beyond what it normally should. It feels so bad and you scream at him
to stop. It’s only seconds later that he stops with his muscles locking up.
That motherfucker finishes inside you and every ounce of you is washed away
with it. There’s a silence where all you can do is cry. You don’t even notice
that you’re crying until you try to breathe in through your nose and realize
its stuffed. Your head hurts and you wanna lay down for eternity. You wonder if
he’d let you kill yourself.
When Cal pulls out of you, he lets you down softly just staring at you sob. Cal
can’t see the tears as they mingle with the water but the subtle redness in
your eyes; the way your eyebrows furrow beneath your nappy black hair is all he
needs to see. And for a moment you’re not sure who you’re staring at. You’re
even more unsure when he kneels down in front of you, towering over you. His
body blocks most of the water aimed at you. You turn to face him, sitting up
slightly with so much fear running through you. Cal closes the distance with a
kiss. You freeze up regardless and you place your hands on his shoulders to
push him away. Instead of pushing him away you find your mouth opening for him,
allowing his tongue inside your mouth and clenching his shoulders tightly.
And you’re still crying. You don’t know what you’re doing, but he’s being so
tender to you now. Your lips and tongue slide against his messily and your
nails dig in hard. You make a hiccup and Cal pulls back to watch you grimace
and curl up. Breathing is hard for you and as soon as you can get enough air,
you let out a loud wail of hurt. Confusion and agony shatter through you and
you think that this is what it feels like to die. And Cal doesn’t move or say a
word for what feels like forever. You cry and you cry until you can’t cry
anymore and he watches you. He just watches you.
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