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okaywolfThis story contains sexually explicit content.
Written to the prompt by Make Up A Criminal cohost prompt account — Mob boss who promises to throw you in deep enough next time.
Okay so this is more about the you and not the mob boss, but I’ve been inspired by recent fiction to write some terrible toxic boyfriends.
Reusing the name Neph for funsies, it’s not the same Neph from Neph and /~.n. Fun fact, Neph as a name is short for Nepenthes, the carnivorous pitcher plants.
Neph coughed up the last of the S’iyaq river in the shower, watches the blood and river water swirl and drain with steaming shower water long run clear of the muck he had dragged himself out of, tries not to collapse with the relief that he’s seen worse. The water’s gone cold when he wakes. No mountain of duvets in the world could warm him, so he opts for a boyfriend sweatshirt and reheating what is likely biohazardous, questionable contents of the coffee pot sat unquestionably too long. He’s still shaking when Gauss gets in, at 3am and clumsily but quietly toeing off boots not to assume whether or not Neph is conscious.
“Fucking shit, what happened to you?” Gauss’s hands on Neph’s face—alcohol, syrup, sweat, gas—vibrate with the bounce of Neph’s jaw they fail to quell.
“Hot water ran out.”
“At least dry your hair, shit.” Gauss stalks off across the wreckage he’ll ask about later and returns to the couch with towels and duvets. He drops a towel on Neph’s head, the rest on his lap, and wraps himself in the blankets before wrapping himself around Neph. He swears the whole time, drowning out the chatter of teeth and tap of nails on a long gone cold coffee mug.
Under the mountain of duvets, Neph wakes still cold barely before noon still in Gauss’s arms. He squirms free from limbs that could easily heft three of him and rolls out of the bed he doesn’t remember Gauss hefting him to.
With a fresh tank of hot water and a new lease on life, Neph hums his way through cooking breakfast while chewing on snakebite jewelry with cracked teeth. The kitchen table—a peeling vinyl and rusting metal artifact—is cleared of spam mail, dying spider plant, and metal forged into alarming tools, for plates of full complement breakfast.
He forgoes his breakfast for starting on the wreckage of the apartment. He’s only righted the hall table, kicked aside last night’s swampy clothes, and swept up broken picture frame glass when Gauss stumbles out of bed.
“Fuckin’ chipper thing ain’t ya.” The hand that envelops his head and doubles down on his bedhead still smells of Gauss’s work and drive home.
Neph makes a mental note to wash the bedding soon, ties up what could use a touch up dye, and seats himself opposite Gauss for breakfast.
It’s all routine, but without Gauss’s routine—waking up at noon without fail—Neph’s whole day would fall apart. The wreckage would be left for stubbed toes, rotting sewage smell, and bloody footprints; an attempt at washing the bedding would leave the mattress bare to grey with weeks of passing out in street clothes; and no part of the kitchen would be inhabitable nevermind functional.
The routine only works because there’s someone else for Neph to consider.
After breakfast, Neph is considering how to get back at Gauss—Gauss whose hands press him into the half unfitted fitted sheet by the shoulder blade, then mid back, then the muscle knots over his pelvis that make him prone to cracking his back in a swift twist that disturbs and nauseates Gauss to no end. Holding Neph down, Gauss grinds _his_ pelvis against Neph’s ass—Neph who pauses in planning to bend Gauss over the broken coffee table before he tosses it, for flexing to press his knees into the bed, as though it were possible to be any closer, as though it were possible to have Gauss deeper in him.
Gauss drags one hand lower, slides his thumb down Neph’s spine until its end. When he presses the nerves there, Neph’s legs tremble and shake under him.
“You piece of shit, son of a bitch,” Neph exhales, then chokes into the loose sheet’s folds.
Gauss rolls his hips in more of a press than thrust before leaning over Neph. He’s tall enough his elbows landing on either side of Neph’s head aren’t a stretch and nor is dropping his head to speak against fading fire orange hair fallen out of Neph’s hair tie. “Are you going to tell me what happened before the hot water ran out?”
“Are you going to fuck me properly?”
“If you’re good and spill.”
Neph cuts the venom out of his voice but not the impatience when he relents with a grumble, “Went for a swim.”
This earns him a slow near vacancy then grind again into the bed.
“Who made you go for a swim?” Gauss’s teasing sneer let Neph know that Gauss is at least horny enough to keep fucking him even with how upset the full story will make him.
“The fuckface with the big watch.” Another slow withdraw and bearing down earns a groan from Neph.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Neph’s lips, sticking to the unfitted fitted sheet with bloody spittle, curve into a wicked smile knowing how a pissed off Gauss will pound him. “Can’t avoid them forever.” He curves his back to meet Gauss’s hips this time, then relaxes against the pulverizing force lest he strain a muscle. “Fuck, come on, I told you.”
Gauss’s hands lace fingertips over the crown of Neph’s head, palm heels against temples gentle but capable of crushing, and Neph prepares for what’s to come by going limp like prey faking death. “And what’s going to happen the next time?”
“They’ll toss me in deeper,” Neph jokes before he can’t anymore.
Written to the prompt by Make Up A Criminal cohost prompt account — Mob boss who promises to throw you in deep enough next time.
Okay so this is more about the you and not the mob boss, but I’ve been inspired by recent fiction to write some terrible toxic boyfriends.
Reusing the name Neph for funsies, it’s not the same Neph from Neph and /~.n. Fun fact, Neph as a name is short for Nepenthes, the carnivorous pitcher plants.
Neph coughed up the last of the S’iyaq river in the shower, watches the blood and river water swirl and drain with steaming shower water long run clear of the muck he had dragged himself out of, tries not to collapse with the relief that he’s seen worse. The water’s gone cold when he wakes. No mountain of duvets in the world could warm him, so he opts for a boyfriend sweatshirt and reheating what is likely biohazardous, questionable contents of the coffee pot sat unquestionably too long. He’s still shaking when Gauss gets in, at 3am and clumsily but quietly toeing off boots not to assume whether or not Neph is conscious.
“Fucking shit, what happened to you?” Gauss’s hands on Neph’s face—alcohol, syrup, sweat, gas—vibrate with the bounce of Neph’s jaw they fail to quell.
“Hot water ran out.”
“At least dry your hair, shit.” Gauss stalks off across the wreckage he’ll ask about later and returns to the couch with towels and duvets. He drops a towel on Neph’s head, the rest on his lap, and wraps himself in the blankets before wrapping himself around Neph. He swears the whole time, drowning out the chatter of teeth and tap of nails on a long gone cold coffee mug.
~~~
Under the mountain of duvets, Neph wakes still cold barely before noon still in Gauss’s arms. He squirms free from limbs that could easily heft three of him and rolls out of the bed he doesn’t remember Gauss hefting him to.
With a fresh tank of hot water and a new lease on life, Neph hums his way through cooking breakfast while chewing on snakebite jewelry with cracked teeth. The kitchen table—a peeling vinyl and rusting metal artifact—is cleared of spam mail, dying spider plant, and metal forged into alarming tools, for plates of full complement breakfast.
He forgoes his breakfast for starting on the wreckage of the apartment. He’s only righted the hall table, kicked aside last night’s swampy clothes, and swept up broken picture frame glass when Gauss stumbles out of bed.
“Fuckin’ chipper thing ain’t ya.” The hand that envelops his head and doubles down on his bedhead still smells of Gauss’s work and drive home.
Neph makes a mental note to wash the bedding soon, ties up what could use a touch up dye, and seats himself opposite Gauss for breakfast.
It’s all routine, but without Gauss’s routine—waking up at noon without fail—Neph’s whole day would fall apart. The wreckage would be left for stubbed toes, rotting sewage smell, and bloody footprints; an attempt at washing the bedding would leave the mattress bare to grey with weeks of passing out in street clothes; and no part of the kitchen would be inhabitable nevermind functional.
The routine only works because there’s someone else for Neph to consider.
After breakfast, Neph is considering how to get back at Gauss—Gauss whose hands press him into the half unfitted fitted sheet by the shoulder blade, then mid back, then the muscle knots over his pelvis that make him prone to cracking his back in a swift twist that disturbs and nauseates Gauss to no end. Holding Neph down, Gauss grinds _his_ pelvis against Neph’s ass—Neph who pauses in planning to bend Gauss over the broken coffee table before he tosses it, for flexing to press his knees into the bed, as though it were possible to be any closer, as though it were possible to have Gauss deeper in him.
Gauss drags one hand lower, slides his thumb down Neph’s spine until its end. When he presses the nerves there, Neph’s legs tremble and shake under him.
“You piece of shit, son of a bitch,” Neph exhales, then chokes into the loose sheet’s folds.
Gauss rolls his hips in more of a press than thrust before leaning over Neph. He’s tall enough his elbows landing on either side of Neph’s head aren’t a stretch and nor is dropping his head to speak against fading fire orange hair fallen out of Neph’s hair tie. “Are you going to tell me what happened before the hot water ran out?”
“Are you going to fuck me properly?”
“If you’re good and spill.”
Neph cuts the venom out of his voice but not the impatience when he relents with a grumble, “Went for a swim.”
This earns him a slow near vacancy then grind again into the bed.
“Who made you go for a swim?” Gauss’s teasing sneer let Neph know that Gauss is at least horny enough to keep fucking him even with how upset the full story will make him.
“The fuckface with the big watch.” Another slow withdraw and bearing down earns a groan from Neph.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Neph’s lips, sticking to the unfitted fitted sheet with bloody spittle, curve into a wicked smile knowing how a pissed off Gauss will pound him. “Can’t avoid them forever.” He curves his back to meet Gauss’s hips this time, then relaxes against the pulverizing force lest he strain a muscle. “Fuck, come on, I told you.”
Gauss’s hands lace fingertips over the crown of Neph’s head, palm heels against temples gentle but capable of crushing, and Neph prepares for what’s to come by going limp like prey faking death. “And what’s going to happen the next time?”
“They’ll toss me in deeper,” Neph jokes before he can’t anymore.
