I Will Treat You Well (A Thneedville High! Swoncest fic)
Okay this took way too long for what it’s worth.
A fic for THIS PICTURE by Zombieskully
WARNING: NSFW, EXTREME BLOODPLAY, knifeplay, cannibalism???, frottage, Oneler being a crazy fuck
This is seriously…I don’t know what I was thinking.
Oneler x Swag
Today he’s a little off.
That’s not saying much, because the guy is a complete nutjob but oh, he’s really fucking hot so who cares.
He’s flipping that butterfly knife in between red half-gloved fingers and he’s never looked more threatening. Still really hot.
He contemplates not going to the bleachers today, their secret make out spot, but the thought makes his fingers twitch and his legs itch. He wonders what that freak’s problem is, because he’s been staring at him in every class they have together, and he knows he’s got reason to stare because he’s fabulous as fuck but I mean tone it down, buddy.
He’d like to think it’s finals making him on edge, look more dangerous than his usual dirty Hot Topic goth appearance, but Oneler never worries about schoolwork. Ever. Why should he? He’s way smart. And handsome. Handsome people are perfect.
He would know.
That’s why he’d consider himself a genius as he walked in between all those rusty metal pillars beneath the bleachers, the farthest corner away from the track. And he’s there, looking sullen and mopey and misunderstood, just like the bad boy he wishes to be, not doing his homework and smoking on school grounds. His dirty red and black boots are tossed a few feet behind him, and he’s leaning against a thin metal bar, the cigarette limp on his lips, and he’s never looked more attractive.
“Hey drippy-lips, looking extra emo today,” and he doesn’t even look at him. Well that’s different. Usually he at least rolls his eyes or scoffs or does something but he just sits there staring in front of him, and the cigarette looks like it needs to be tapped, because it’s nearly all ashes. “Hey, you okay, faggot?”
He doesn’t answer.
He pulls his glasses up to his hair and drops his backpack next to him, but not really drops more like throws, and he still doesn’t budge. The ashes on the cigarette fall softly to the ground between Onelers legs, and it drifts off into the breeze bit by bit.
“What the fuck are you doing, meditating? Are you a hippy?”
“Swag,” he whispers lowly, and just his voice is enough to make his toes curl in his pink fluffy Katy Perry socks that are far too small for his feet. The cigarette dances lightly with the movement of his lips. “There’s something wrong with me.”
“What? Do you have some daddy issue you need to get off your chest? Because man, I may technically be gay, but I’m not that gay.”
“Does your tongue ever stop wagging?”
“Do you ever stop being a huge dick?”
He still doesn’t move his head, and he’s been staring at the pillar in front of them this whole time. What was he even talking about?
“Look, are we gonna fuck around or not? Because I don’t come to your smelly little hideout for nothing.”
He slowly lifts his hand and beckons him with two curling fingers, and he’s on his knees, moving closer to him. He could smell his sporty body wash and even though it smelled cheap and faded, he wanted to breathe it in forever. He was at his thigh, leaning onto him, and he’s excited to start. But he doesn’t move for him, doesn’t toss his cigarette. He’s still staring.
“For fuck’s sake-”
“Do you wonder what it’s like to be insane?”
“Are you spouting some fucking Linkin Park lyrics or something because I really can’t-”
He turns quickly enough to scare the shit out of him and he falls on his ass, propping himself up with his elbows, and he’s suddenly between his legs with his butterfly knife in one hand and a smile on his face that screams “I murdered your cat”.
He can’t seem to think of anything to say, not with that crazy fucking look in his eyes. His lip ring stretched too tight on that grin, wider than he’d ever seen, and he feels his own lip trembling.
“It’d be so easy to fuck you up,” he says, and Swag can’t seem to even breathe anymore, not with that knife clutched so desperately in that dirty gloved palm. He doesn’t move, and he feels his lungs pulsing from lack of air. Don’t move, he’ll slice you to pieces.
“And I wonder how I’d do it,” and Swag can’t stop the slow frightened murmur that escapes him. The knife is at his collar, and if he gulps too deeply it’ll slice his Adam’s apple. He is slower than he’s ever been. “What to do with the body.”
He’s leaning further into him, thighs touching thighs, and he’s looming close enough to feel his voice against his cheek, vibrating, making him fear for his everything. “You’re always so scared.”
He wants to retort, tell him to fuck off because he was never scared of anything, especially not a twat with a little plastic butter knife, but all he can muster is a whimper, and it is definitely manly.
He’s smiling wide still, his eyes big and analyzing, and he might just piss himself.
“Would you still like me if I was a lunatic?”
The knife is slowly dipping forward to pop the first button of his shirt, and he can finally fumble out the words “you are a lunatic”. The boy is laughing, and the knife pushes further down.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Swag would like to think he’s just having a rough day, his parents weren’t the best people, not like his mom. Maybe he’d watched one too many slasher movies with his stupid creepy friends, and he was curious. Whatever it was, it was sexy and yet it scared the shit out of him. Was he supposed to get a boner, or was he supposed to be begging for his life? He was about to do both.
“I was wondering what it’d be like to be a crazy person,” he hisses against his face, the knife traveling down to the collar of his sweater vest, and he was amazed and horrified that it was sharp enough to slice through it like it was air. The sweater vest his mom knit him. He would have voiced a terribly nasty complaint, but that grin was at his ear, breath warm and shiver inducing. “And you’d still love me.”
Love is a strong word. He hates that word a lot. No one ever says they love him, so he doesn’t say it either. He rasps out another breathy whimper as his sweater vest is destroyed in a loud thin ripping noise. The buttons of the shirt underneath go with it, scattering on the cold cement and bouncing away with quiet clicking. Oneler pulls away the ruined clothes to reveal his pale milky skin, perfect in every way. He feels his eyes burn, he’s too scared to blink. Maybe his tears will ease the dryness.
“I want to know what it’s like to hurt someone,” he kisses into his ear, and his lips go back into that Cheshire grin. The knife is pointed between his pecs, right in the middle of his chest, and he doesn’t breathe in fear of his chest lifting high enough to touch it. He twirls it gently. He is not getting out of this intact. “I don’t want to hurt you, in particular. But I know you won’t mind, will you?”
He thinks to himself, this is the point where you start begging for your life and offering him all of your possessions. The knife traces his jaw and now he can’t swallow.
“Relax, princess. I’m not going to kill you.”
Please don’t. Please.
“When I think about it my stomach hurts, like I’m hungry.”
This guy is crazy with crazy and he’s trapped like an animal, an animal with a huge aching boner and this is so inappropriate and confusing that the tears finally escape his eyes and trail down his face before he can stop them.
“Don’t cry, I haven’t even started yet.”
The thumb at his cheek is sincere and warm enough to distract him from the knife for just a moment, a moment long enough for the blade to pierce the side of his neck, and he’s bursting with blood. The cry that escapes him sounds inhuman, and his mouth is open in an ugly silent sob. The same thumb is now at the cut, squeezing more blood out and onto the cement beneath them, and wow that is a lot of blood, he can feel it. It stings and oozes and he’s shivering all over, because he’s still got a boner.
The boy lifts his hand to examine the blood coating his fingers, and he is transfixed, yellow eyes glossy and wondering. This is new and exciting to him. His lips twitch, and Swag is gasping in between his shallow crying.
He dips down suddenly to suck at the blood like one of those vampires from that shitty teen movie his mom loves, and he can’t help the way his legs spasm around him, his hands grasp at his t shirt, and he wonders if he’s going to die tonight. The knife cuts him under his collarbone, deeper than his neck, and he is bawling and squirming and still very dignified okay.
“Be quiet, princess, you’re fine,” he mutters against his bloodied neck, tongue flat against the wound, making it burn more than any pain he’s ever felt. The hand with the knife is in his hair, keeping his head down as he moves to the second cut, drinking in the blood pooling on his chest. He would think this was hot if there wasn’t a sharp blade pressed to the side of his face, right at his eye. Breathing was impossible, and he was choking silently on his own tears. He was going to die, and it was going to be sexy.
From here he could see the boy licking it up quickly and hungrily, like he hadn’t eaten for days. His lips kiss and suck and smear red and wet. The hand in his hair tightens as he drank him, and his legs push against him, spreading him open and grinding. Dear lord, the mixed signals were ruining him.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
He nods quickly because words escaped him and refused to come back, his neck spurting as he did so. The boy is smiling again, and it’s all red, red teeth and red lips and cheeks and there’s even a bit on his nose. He still finds it amazingly scary and hot at the same time and he just wants to crush him against his dick and hump until he explodes, but he’s terrified. And woozy. The blade drops to his stomach, and he’s crying again.
“No more, please,” is all he gets out past the mucus in his throat, his voice breaking and hiccuping like a child’s. How long can this go on for? Is he going to drink me until I’m dead, he wonders. Is he going to tear my belly open and fuck it? That’s what psychos did.
“Don’t be a baby,” he says, and it’s amused beyond all reason. His hands are pushing at his arms, grasping tight. Please, I want to live. “You’ll like this part.”
The blade flips up and he’s sobbing for forgiveness, from whatever he did to deserve this, but it doesn’t matter because it’s already in his skin, right below his belly button, digging and slicing slowly and he actually wants to die now. He doesn’t want to die like this, cut open like a pig and drowning in his own tears. But he can’t stand it anymore.
The pain is searing, but the cut isn’t deep enough to kill him, or even send him to the hospital. He’s afraid to thrash out to get away, because that knife is still in his belly and it hasn’t finished its conquest. His sobbing is loud in his own ears, and Oneler doesn’t even tell him to shut up. He’s enjoying it.
The knife is gone and blood is pooling into his pants, soaking through the hem and past the leather belt, but Oneler is quick to remove it. He yanks them down to his thighs along with his sparkly Katy Perry underwear, and his dick is immediately slathered in his own blood. His erection was gone, maybe from the pain, maybe from the blood loss, but One doesn’t seem to have a problem with his. Oneler lifts his hips off the ground enough for his dick to fall back against Swag’s stomach, right into the gaping cut, and he’s screaming because holy fucking Jesus Christ fucking shit oh my God. He’s scrambling to move his hips down, so the blood isn’t collecting in the concave of his stomach, so his dick isn’t touching that awful stinging painful thing on him, and he’s crying even harder.
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” as if he knows what it feels like.
Begging is all that comes out of his mouth as Oneler moves his own hips against him, making him rub rhythmically against the cut. This wasn’t sexy anymore, it was torture. Oneler was the only one enjoying himself now.
His head is getting heavy, and he’s starting to lose it. The thrusting is the only thing he can focus on, the pain numbing his brain, and Oneler’s hands and face and cock are dipped in his blood. He’s still got that awful smile on his face, and he’s holding him down as if he’s got somewhere to run.
And he’s out.
Oneler watches him drop to the pavement, his resistance gone. The blood is starting to cake at his neck and shoulder, and the blood at his stomach is getting thick and sticky, but it’s still slick enough for him to finish off, turning red into pink. He isn’t sick enough to drink that, he has standards. He leans over to smack Swag in the face, but he’s completely done for, his breath finally even. He was finally relaxed.
He backs off to see the damage he’s caused, and it’s a piece of art. He doesn’t want to look away. His face and fingers are stiff from the blood, but he can’t be bothered to clean up. He lights up his cigarette, but he doesn’t want to lose the taste of Swag on his tongue. He lets it burn out against his lips.
He likes the flavor far more than he should.
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