#john has a very bad time

[naoa-ao3]

Fodder for Dreaming

John is in between stays at Ravenscar. Weirdness finds him no matter how hard he tries to toe the line and when two skinheads proposition him to get rid of a demon infestation, they're really not asking. John goes along but get's a whole lot more than he bargained for at the worst time.

The gate slams behind him and John opens his eyes.

He's laying down and there's thunder outside his windows.

Bad weather and bad dreams again.

He's in his bed.

He's in a bed.

Another nameless motel.

Another stained ceiling.

He reaches for his cigarettes and already the thoughts come tumbling back to him.

He's a month out of Ravenscar, mind frayed and bed sweaty from another nightmare. Another memory he can't chase away.

More bad dreams he can't help.

He's trying this time. He really doesn't want to go back and he's being good. No friends, nothing weird.

Not even any drugs. . .

His hands shake as they light his cigarette and he's faced with another aimless day.

Bad weather and bad dreams all day and all night.

He has nothing to do and nowhere to go, nothing but to think and no one to take him from his thoughts when he can't stop them.

Cheryl has a baby and Chas is in London.

His other friends are in the wind.

No band and no guitar, not that he was really good at it. He'd just been pretending. . . like with everything else.

He get's up and goes to the store, spends some of his last few quid on another pack of Silk Cuts and walks around with his hands in his pockets and his head full of broken glass.

It's been like this for a month.

Nowhere to go, no one to see.

No one that visits and no one to visit himself.

Just him and his head.

Him and his glass.

He ends up at a pub.

He always ends up at the pub these days.

He want's to get drunk.

Wants to forget but never can.

He drinks and drinks and doesn't hear the music.

Someone puts on ABBA and he doesn't hear it.

Doesn't hear it when the song changes and Barbara Streisand takes over.

He stays, sits, drinks and braces for another night all the same as the rest. The same thoughts and the same dreams all in the same putrid, little room.

Nothing changes and he's only just holding it together.

He's not sure he wants to live like this and the cracked bar in front of him is screaming that this is as low as it get's.

No faces he knows in the crowed, no voices shouting over the din and the music. . . no one to call and nothing but the thoughts in his head to keep him company.

They scream at him.

He doesn't think he's ever been so alone.

He can't hear the music over the screaming. . .

Astra's screaming. . .

He can't hear anything any more except her.

So he doesn't hear when two men call out to him and he jumps when they sit down on either side of him. He isn't used to people any more.

They slide onto stools and smirk, heads shaved and shining.

"Evening, mate." One of them say's and his heart hammers between them.

One is gangly and tall and the other is broad and dense.

They're both skinheads.

"Don't think I know you." He say's, trying to play it cool. Whatever it is they want it isn't going to be good.

They order their drinks and they order one for him too, pushing it towards him like they're old friends.

The gangly one lights up.

"You're Constantine, right?" He asks.

John hesitates. "You wanna tell me your name first?" He asks.

"Nigel." The man say's.

Nigel.

Right.

He snorts but the man doesn't thump him for it.

Warning sign number one.

"This is Tom, we've been looking for you." Nigel continues. "Heard about you and some friends of yours having a gig in Manchester some years ago." He reads John's face. "Now we don't want music you understand. . . we want the other thing. We've heard you know about the Arcane. Heard you know a lot, actually."

John feels himself break out in sweat . "Lot's happened since Manchester." He say's. "I'm not sure I'm the man you want."

Nigel nods and Tom say's nothing. "Well now that's not what we've heard. We've heard you're the guy to talk to. You're the guy who knows stuff."

He thinks of Newcastle and suddenly almost can't see.

He's blind and deaf and flailing.

"We've got a problem. One of our friends was. . . well he wasn't the careful type, you know? He brought something into the house but. . . it won't leave. Won't bloody get out. Do you understand?"

John thinks of all the arrogant, somehow lucky stuff he's done and shakes is head. "Can't help you." He say's, voice shaking more than he'd expected.

He tries to get up but Tom plants his hand in his chest and pushes him back onto his stool.

"Drink your pint." He say's.

John drinks his pint. "Look I can't help you." He say's again.

He can barely help himself.

They don't blink. "We're not asking." Nigel say's, mouth turned down in a frown yet somehow still smiling.

He has a freckle under his left eye.

John stares at it. "I'm telling you I can't help you." He say's again, feeling strained.

There's smoke in the air and Nigel doesn't listen. "Anyway, it's small time but Paul, that was the poor chap- he got eaten. Since then it's been wrecking the place. You can't even go into the drawing room."

John stares at him wildly.

It doesn't sound that tough.

He's dealt with weirder shit. . .

It's only fucking up a drawing room. . .

He stops himself and shakes his head. "Mate, I'm telling you. I can't do anything about it." He say's, desperate for them to listen.

They shake their heads.

They don't listen.

"See you keep saying that but you took care of that thing in Newcastle, I heard."

John think's he's going to vomit but he doesn't. "Heard that did you?" He asks, voice horse.

Voice cracking.

Nigel shrugs. "Dunno what I heard but I heard something. Anyway, we need it gone and we need the proper sort to do it. You know what we mean?"

He doesn't and Tom grunts.

"Don't fucking make a problem." He say's.

John looks around the pub and considers splitting but they're right next to him and he doubts he'll make it. "Look. . . maybe you tell me what it is and I can help you from here." He says, hopping Nigel think's it's a good offer.

Nigel shakes his head. "No deal." He say's.

They drain their pints and he finishes his as he plots his escape.

He has to get away.

He can't do this shit again.

He isn't ready.

He never was.

His mind is already running through what the hell they could have summoned.

They usher him out, Nigel standing close, too close and Tom lighting a cigarette.

They take him to a car.

A beat up Admiral with a dented driver's door.

He want's a cigarette too.

He frowns and get's in the back, feeling like a prisoner or someone in a movie, ready to make a run for it.

"Don't do it." Tom say's, lowering his head to look in at him like he knows what he's thinking.

John thinks of the orderlies who beat him and the nights in Ravenscar and doesn't run.

Tom nods his head.

He nods too.

The car starts up.

The seat is cracked and old.

Nigel is humming.

John can't name the tune.

They head out of town, away from the city and into farm land but it isn't so far and they pull off at a black hulk before he's calmed down.

John's eyes adjust and he see's it's not a black hulk after a moment.

It's a manor house.

He looks around uncertainly and there's no lights showing from within.

"Alright, we're here." Nigel say's, fishing a copy of 'Candour' out from under the seat, glancing at it and throwing it in the back where John think's his heart is finally going to explode.

"I can't do it." He say's again, more weakly this time.

Even if he could he isn't prepared.

Nigel tuts and then suddenly there's a fist in his hair, dragging him over the back of the seat in front of him and Nigel is in his face, nose touching his cheek, breath foul.

"You're gonna fucking do it." He say's.

John isn't right in his head and he starts to shake but then the hand lets go and only a few hairs leave with it.

He sits back, bile twisting in his throat.

"Right then, out you go." Nigel say's.

They get out and he looks up at the manor house. It's crumbling front steps and boarded up windows. The missing masonry and the broken bricks littering the front walk. . . It looks derelict.

Tom pushes him and Nigel laughs.

He walks and they take him inside.

Maybe if he does what they want they'll take him back and he can go to bed.

Maybe the same every day isn't so bad.

He wants to see his stained ceiling again.

He stares around and then see's lights down hallways and knows suddenly that there are people here. His one hope that the place is abandoned. . . that somehow Nigel and Tom brought him to the wrong fucking house is dashed.

They pass rooms with collapsed floors and ceilings.

John doesn't like the holes that lead to nowhere, up and down. . . promising things and pains he can imagine only too well.

He looks at Nigel.

The man has stopped humming.

"It's in here." The man say's, stopping at a closed door.

John stares at him.

He stares at the door.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

He doesn't even know what's on the other side of the door.

Tom raises his eyebrows. "Well?" He asks.

John shakes his head. "What the bloody hell do you want me to do?" He asks. "You brought me all the way out here. . . I don't. . ."

But Nigel is smiling.

He puts his finger to his lips and then opens the door.

There's light inside.

There's fire in the grate and people all around.

Tom shoves him and John stumbles inside, raising a hand to shield his eyes for a moment before turning wildly and seeing a room filled with people.

There's a red banner with a black double S hung over the mantle. Back on red on hate.

SS.

He see's a dozen shaved heads and black boots and people are laughing all around. Girls with their hair bleached and faces hard. . . men and boys with smirks and brown bottles in their hands.

He turns to Nigel and Tom and opens his mouth.

Nigel hits him. "We needed the right kind." He say's. "Proper English lad. Figured that was what it'd want."

It?

There's a table laid out and John stares and see's food.

There's cake even.

He turns and balls his fists. "What the hell is this?" He shouts but they all laugh and he think's maybe he's gone round the bend again except he's definitely here and this isn't his usual brand of crazy.

"A worthy sacrifice." A figure say's rising out of the masses, his head nicked and shaved.

His eyes triumphant.

John's are bulging out of his head.

"We summon a god tonight. A god of the ancient Britons. We who call ourselves British, English, we here have taken pains to reclaim the glory that was our England! To take back our jobs and our government from outsiders. From Pakis and Nogs. . ." The man looks around as the others clap and cheer. "Is this not our homeland? Is this not our place? Is this not our fucking land?" He points downwards and receives cheers.

It's a lot of bullshit but one word stick's in John's ears: sacrifice.

He has a sudden, horrible feeling that he knows what they're sacrificing.

Who they're sacrificing.

He tries to run for the door then but Nigel catches him and drags him back, laughing.

The crowed closes in on him.

He turns again, wild this time and scared.

He's a cornered animal so he lashes out.

People are laughing, black boots and shaved heads.

Bleached blondes with their hard faces.

Nicks along their lovers' scalps.

Hate in their hearts.

People are pointing at him.

He's thinking of Astra.

When is he not?

He puts his hands over his head and cowers.

They grab him and drag him along, Nigel singing.

"When I was a lad, I hadn't any sense. I bought a flute for fifty pence. The only tune that I could play was-"

He stares ahead as they drag him to a circle they've drawn on the floor.

White chalk on ancient brown wood.

He doesn't know what it's supposed to be.

Maybe he doesn't know enough, maybe they don't.

He looks up and the man who'd risen from the crowed is there. He's older but not by much and his head looks like a skull.

There's a black, double S hanging behind him.

An evil herald.

"Blood of an Englishman. Proper red." He say's.

John stares up, heart hammering painfully.

Nigel is grinning.

Tom watches.

They're all watching.

Hungry and waiting.

His eyes water over and he tries to draw air, looking again for an exit that isn't there.

Nigel is in his ear.

"We sacrifice you and we get what we want. You see? Heard about that botched job in Newcastle." He clicks his tongue while John's heart does a somersault. "Don't reckon anyone will miss you."

There's candles burning around them.

People watching.

He can't breath and Nigel and Tom are on either side of him again.

Even Tom looks pleased for once and he's holding tight.

Hurting him.

John thinks this might be it and almost accepts it.

Almost except he doesn't want to be murdered by these people.

The cake has a red 88 on it.

Enough candles that he can't count them.

Who's birthday is it?

No.

Not here.

Not like this.

He struggles and they hit him, Tom's fist is big and meaty against his ribs.

He gasps for air and Nigel coos and takes over, holding him up. He wipes away his tears. He smiles and looks into his eyes and John feels his whole body shake.

Nigel searches his eyes and see's what he wants.

Nigel nods and let's go of his face.

John panics and kicks, desperate this time.

He hears an 'oof' and hits something soft.

Nigel doubles over, hands flying to his balls.

It isn't enough and the rest of them don't pause.

A knife joins them and he's still in the circle and blood get's out.

It sears when the knife cuts and he can't stop it or what follows.

Something changes.

The air changes and his breathing. . . he's only just started again but suddenly everything tastes bad.

The air around them is putrid and stale.

The others sense it too and something shakes the house.

They're on the ground floor but everyone looks uneasy.

The knife has stopped moving and John is just as uneasy as all of them.

The shaking stops and when nothing happens he and Nigel both go for the knife.

He grabs it but Nigel rips it away again, lashing out with his little cutter.

John throws them to the floor and Nigel screams out, yelling for the second time that night.

He's fallen on the knife and John stares in horror as the house begins to shake again.

Collapsed rooms finally devour the caverns above them.

Rot taking hold.

Rot winning.

He braces himself like a crab against the floor.

People are shouting.

"It comes! He comes!" The leader shouts, head shaved and nicked, arms waving frantically.

The SS overhead flutters.

The fire flares.

Something large is in the room.

Large and taking up space nothing can possibly fill.

John can't make sense of it and crawls away into a corner.

Whatever it is, it grabs up jackboots and devours them whole.

it eats and it feasts and it kills.

It licks the things it calls fingers and tears flesh and leather alike.

John cowers, everything he's recovered gone and then the thing looks at him.

It sniffs.

It waits.

He waits.

"Kon-stan-tyn." It breaths.

He opens mad eyes, not knowing if he's even alive still.

He wants to grovel.

The thing has horns.

Too many to count.

"No. A Constantine. A different one." It say's.

He doesn't know what it means.

It has no mouth.

He doesn't know how he's hearing it speak.

He can hardly look at it.

"A debt is paid. I spare you."

He stares back and then it's gone.

Ancient and primordial.

Some forgotten deity he doesn't want to know the name of.

He can't feel his legs and all around him is carnage.

It's like Newcastle all over again and he screams but there's no one left to hear him.

No one to care.

He wants to die.

He claws at his face and shakes his head against it but there's red everywhere.

The house is weak and he hears it creaking around him.

He get's up and tries to find the way out, slipping and sliding in what were once people. Bleached blondes and shaved heads.

There are lights down hallways just out of sight.

He doesn't know what he's seen.

No one left to tell him.

No money.

He closes his eyes and makes it outside, vomiting among the crumbling masonry and broken bricks.

He's in the middle of nowhere now and shivers in the night.

The beat up Admiral is in the grass but the keys are inside, mired in puddles of what were once the shapes of human beings.

His mind is shattered glass.

Blood and cities that aren't the same. . . little girls and skinheads. . . he can't sort it out.

Screams sounding all the same.

People all the same.

Blood everywhere and all of it red and just the same.

He wanders his way back to civilization.

There's a score of dead neo-Nazis behind him.

They had mothers too once. . . probably.

Not like him.

He's seen their mangled corpses.

He can't get it out of his head and he can't get Newcastle or Astra or Nigel's freckle out either.

He walks and mutters to himself, trying to make sense of it.

Trying to understand why it's all happened again.

Over and over.

Everything going wrong and him walking out. . . unscathed. . .

Nigel dead. . . Tom dead. . . their leader dead. . .

Astra and all the rest. . . all dead.

A siren eventually stops him and the police take him for a crazy.

He is and they take him back to the nick and process him and in just a few days time he ends up back in Ravenscar even though he tried to do the right thing.

Even though he stayed away from the drugs and the magic and all his friends who've disappeared.

He ends up back in the padded cell with the orderlies who hate him and the doctors who don't care.

He has new nightmares now.

New horrors to keep him up and play before his eyes, over and over and over.

The gates locked behind him.

[s0fter-sin]

soap's whole deal being sniper and demolitions gets me going bc on the surface they sound so different but when you get into it, you realise it's bc soap's smart

sniping is all math; calculating distances and wind interference and bullet drop. something i think people overlook is he was listed as a sniper first so it can be implied that he's better at it than demolitions. he does more sniping in both campaigns than demolitions work; in capture or kill, ghost specifically calls on him to take down the aq snipers

and demolitions is math with a hit of chemistry; knowing what mixes with what, knowing how much to use, recognising environmental factors and adjusting accordingly. it's not just about the boom; so much work goes into contained/ planned explosions. especially when having enough power for a breacher charge and not bringing down the whole building is the difference between mission success and failure

the chemical bombs he makes in alone can't just be any old cleaners, they have to have the correct reaction to each other; he just knew off the top of his head what would mix with what to create what reaction. he would also potentially have to recognise them by sight/smell bc they would’ve been written in spanish

soap would also have to know architecture; recognising structural integrity and weak points so he knows exactly where to plant a charge to bring it down and how it'll come down

he has an incredible soldier's mind people just forget that bc he's sociable which itself is a skill

we know he tends to buck against orders he doesn't agree with like when he pushes back against ghost in capture or kill and shepherd when he tells them to release hassan

he gets closer to people and sees if he can trust them and that's when he follows them without question. really think about how he talks to alejandro and rudy; he asks about their home and alejandro's family and rudy's relationship with him. those aren't questions you ask a stranger after a few hours of knowing them. that's not even touching on his relationship with ghost

he also deliberately brings people of higher ranks down to his level; talking informally with ghost and giving him a shoulder punch, addressing alejandro (a colonel!!) by his first name and rudy by his nickname despite literally just meeting them. he personalises all of them and it’s in direct opposition to the reason most characters do that; it’s not due to insubordination or lack of respect, the more he respects and trusts someone, the more casual he is with them

he digs into people; he wants to know what makes them tick and that determines if he can one, trust them and two, follow their orders. once he decides that, he's the ultimate soldier; he bleeds loyalty which makes him vicious when that loyalty is taken for granted

he isn't naive or bubbly or insecure; he's an incredibly smart and aware soldier. he's aggressive and bloodthirsty and loyal and intuitive and i love him so much

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

And remember kids, the next time someone tells you, "George R. R. Martin wouldn't make Jon Snow the typical fantasy hero because that's cliche".....

Oh yes he would!

One viewer wants to know what character would you play (on the show)? GRRM: If I could magically clap my hands and become a different person, it would be cool to play Jon Snow who's much more of the classic hero. Everybody wants to be the classic hero! ABC Interview, 2014

GRRM: And the character I’d want to be? Well who wouldn’t want to be Jon Snow — the brooding, Byronic, romantic hero whom all the girls love. Meduza Interview, 2017

In fact he already has ☺️

[undertheredhood]

bruce after gotham war: why don't my children talk to me?

dick who is so done with him: it's the way you act! it's the way you act!

[ccbatman]

actually so evil how much of hal's internal world gets obliterated with the rewriting of his relationships with jessica and martin.

[vvienne]

The reason why Isaac and jeannemary really did have to die is that if they were still involved I think it would have shamed everyone enough not to even do half of all that

[13eyond13]

actually stunned by how gay The Beatles has been all this time and I just never knew

[mariocki]

Murder Obsession (Follia omicida, 1981)

"Why are you interested in the occult?"

"The only way to discover life's secret is through magic."

"I don't understand."

"Death. That exact moment when the body and soul separate, that which in theosophy is known as the astral body. We would have to capture that exact moment to analyse it, but to do this we would have to kill with our own hands, so that not even a wisp of life escapes us. Don't you agree?"

"And would you kill someone for this?"

"I think so."

[britneyshakespeare]

Let slaves in mind be servile to their fears;

Our heart is high instarred in brighter spheres.

Fernando, IV.ii of Love's Sacrifice (1633) by John Ford

[please-picturemeintheweeds]

tw: abuse discussion, intimate partner violence, grooming discussion, power and control. Trying to be vague here and not fly too close to the muse Sun

Re: red tv and the manuscript discourse, I wonder if people realize that it is actually possible to have abusive/toxic/harmful relationships with people your own age, too? Like even if Taylor and jg were 2 years apart, harm still could’ve occurred….? Like it was obviously not grooming bc that is a very specific set of experiences usually involving a child and a person in a position of trust/power like a parent or teacher or coach etc (I know this bc I lived it!!!). But like… that is not the only kind of harm that can happen to young people???? Her youth/naivety was definitely a factor in how fucked up the situation was but it was not the only element. Power dynamics do not begin and end at age. Adults can fuck each other up, too…

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

update i saw the mario movie !! it was cute actually

[eric-the-bmo]

hm. Worry Time(tm)

[weaselle]

i want to talk about real life villains

Not someone who mugs you, or kills someone while driving drunk, those are just criminals. I mean VILLAINS.

Not like trump or musk, who are... cartoonishly evil. And not sexy villains, not grandiose villains, not even satisfyingly two dimensional villains it is easy to hate unconditionally. The real villains.

I had a client who was a retired executive for one of the big oil companies, i think it was Shell or Chevron. Had a home just outside of San Francisco that was wall to wall floor to ceiling full of expensive art. Literally. I once accidentally knocked a painting off the wall because it was hanging at knee height at the corner of the stairs, and it had a little brass plaque on it, and i looked up the name of the artist and it was Monet's apprentice and son-in-law, who was apparently also a famous painter. He had an original Andy Warhol, which should have been a prize piece for anyone to showcase -- it was hanging in the bathroom. I swear to god this guy was using a Chihuly (famous glass sculptor) as a fruit bowl. And he was like, "idk my wife was the one who liked art"

I was intrigued by this guy, because in the circles i run this dude is The Enemy. right? Wealthy oil executive? But as my client, he was... like a sweet grandpa. A poor widower, a nice old man, anyone who knew him would have called him a sweetheart. He had a slightly bewildered air, a sort of gentle bumbling nature.

And the fact that he was both of these things, a Sweet Little Old Man and The Enemy, at the same time, seemed important and fascinating to me.

He reminded me of some antagonist from fiction, but i couldn't put my finger on who. And when i did it all made sense.

John Hammond.

probably one of the most realistic bad guys ever written.

If you've only ever seen the movie, this will need some explaining.

Michael Crichton wrote Jurassic Park in 1990, and i read it shortly thereafter. In the movie, the dinosaurs are the antagonists, which imo erases 50% of the point of the story.

book spoilers below.

In the book, John Hammond is the villain but it takes the reader like half the book to figure that out. Just like my client, John is a sweet old man who wants lovely things for people. He's a very sympathetic character. But as the book progresses, you start to see something about him.

He has an idea, and he's sure it's a good one. When someone else dies in pursuit of his dream, he doesn't think anything of it. When other people turn out to care about that, he brings in experts to evaluate the safety of his idea, and when they quickly tell him his idea is dangerous and needs to be put on hold, he ignores his own experts that he himself hired, because they are telling him that he is wrong, and he is sure he is right.

In his mind, he's a visionary, and nobody understands his vision. He is surrounded by naysayers. Several things have proven too difficult to do the best and safest way, so he has cut corners and taken shortcuts so he can keep moving forward with his plans, but he's sure it's fine. He refuses to hear any word of caution, because he believes he is being cautious enough, and he knows best, even though he has no background in any of the sciences or professions involved. He sends his own grandchildren out into a life-threatening situation because he is willfully ignorant of the danger he is creating.

THIS is like the real villains of the world. He doesn't want anyone to die. Far from it, he only wants good things for people! He's a sweet old man who loves his grandchildren. But he has money and power and refuses to hear that what he is doing is dangerous for everyone, even his own family.

I think he's possibly one of the most important villains ever written in popular fiction.

In the book, he is killed by a pack of the smallest, cutest, "least dangerous" dinosaurs, because a big part of why we read fiction is to see the villains face thematic justice. But like a cigarette CEO dying of lung cancer, his death does not stop his creation from spreading out into the world to continue to endanger everyone else.

I think it is really important to see and understand this kind of villainy in fiction, so you can recognize it in real life.

Sweetheart of a grandfather. Wanted the best for everyone. Right up until what was best for everyone inconvenienced the pursuit of his own interests.

And my client was like that too. His wife had died, and his dog was now the love of his life, and she was this little old dog with silky hair in a hair cut that left long wispy bits on her lower legs. Certain plant materials were easily entangled in this hair and impossible to get out without pulling her hair which clearly hurt her. When i suggested he ask his groomer to trim her lower leg hair short to avoid this, he refused, saying he really liked her usual hair cut.

I emphasized that she was in pain after every walk due to the plant debris getting caught in her leg hair, and a simple trim could put an end to her daily painful removal of it, and he just frowned like i'd recommended he take a bath in pig shit and said "But she'll be ugly" and refused to talk about it anymore.

Sweet old man though. Everyone loved him.

[potato-lord-but-not]

what if I thought about this for the rest of my life and never recovered

hello oh my gosh im truly obsessed with your malevolent art and comics they bring me immense joy when i see them on my dash.

really loving the development of arthur lester and his 3 boyfriends. specially when it comes to oscar and how his dynamic is shifting to a better role with john.

also i really got a kick out of you saying oscar’s favorite hobby was sitting on men in your last post with oscar and john and was very curious if noel has gotten to experience the same joys as arthur and john.

i hope you’re having an arthur lester lovely day. stay groovy 💛

Hehe ty I’m glad you enjoy the sillies!! also been thinking about Oscar and John too much lately like I can’t stop drawing them…… anyway Noel absolutely got to experience the wonders of having a cute clergyman straddle him <3

[dashiellqvverty]

everyone always wants to talk about jenny nicholsons video essays and i’m like does ANYONE want to talk about the art of the mattress aka the sleep song. bc it plays in my head every time i see anything about her.

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 4 | masterlist

-

There’s nothing else to do but pretend it didn’t happen. 

In the morning, you’re surprised to wake up and find him in the bed next to you, still covered in old sweat and dried cum. You suppose even in your sleep you’d unconsciously expected him to avoid the incident altogether—wake up extra early to shower while leaving you alone in the bed, giving you a modicum of privacy to digest the situation and its repercussions on your own.

He does no such thing.

“Morning, sweetheart,” John rumbles, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Feeling alright?”

Dangling precariously over the edge of oblivion. Some kind of abyss. The kind that says you might not like what’s down here, girlie, but still you sit by the edge and kick your feet. 

“Yeah,” you croak, and Lord, your voice is hoarse. Scratchy and rough, like it’s been dragged over sandpaper. 

“Good.” He lets his hand rest on the curve of your cheek for a second before pulling it away. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? I’ll shower after.”

The bed groans under his weight when he sits up, throwing his legs over the side before rising to his feet. You quickly avert your eyes at the sight of his naked backside, hairy there as well. A bear all over. Even his yawn reminds you of one. And the way that he stretches his arms overhead and every bone in his upper body cricks and cracks, the sounds of age manifold. 

You scrub yourself with shaky hands in the shower, gnawing at your bottom lip when you spread your puffy folds to find his cum still slightly tacky inside of you. Very bad. Scooping as much out as you can with your fingers, watching it run down the drain. Very bad indeed. 

John has breakfast on the table when you come downstairs and it seems, somehow, uncouth to just tell him you want to go home. So instead you force yourself to sit and eat, glad that he at least agrees that it isn’t the time for conversation. 

At the door, he sees you off with a hug, watching you from the door until you reverse out of his driveway and drive off, waving as you leave. 

“This is really bad,” you whisper to yourself on the drive home. “Really, really bad.”

Despite the morning after, the night you spent together is never explicitly spoken about. It’s not a ‘thing’ you discuss by any means. No sit down conversation, no awkward allusions to it, no talking around and around the events until the exchange becomes unbearable. It simply blips out of existence as soon as you change into your old clothes and John walks you to the door, seeing you out. 

You still show up the next day, as usual. Nothing’s changed except everything, but it feels taboo to even mention that things feel different. 

The world hasn’t radically changed since you accidentally slept with John, but it certainly feels that way sometimes. In the few delicate hours after leaving his house, you were sure he’d call at any moment to tell you that your services would no longer be required—that he’d send your last check in the mail before parting ways. So sure of that, in fact, that you’d put your phone on silent for hours before mustering up the courage to check your missed calls later that evening.

Only a few texts from friends. No missed calls from your employer. 

He doesn’t fire you. He certainly doesn’t treat you any differently the next time you come to babysit. You still get paid every week—though, admittedly, the money makes you feel a little weird now after sleeping with him, but it’s not like you can just turn your nose up at making rent—and everything else in your life stays exactly the same. If you weren’t now acutely aware of the feeling of your boss coming inside you, you might even think you dreamt it up. 

Still, despite John never bringing it up or even alluding to sleeping with you, there’s still a sense that he—

The soft, affectionate thanks, hun that he gives you when you bring him a glass of water on the rare day he comes home early to work out in the garage makes you shiver. 

His need to touch increases tenfold, matched only by his proprietariness. He must feel like after what you did together, it’s nothing for him to squeeze your thighs when he tells you that you did a good job with the baby or hug you extra tight when you’re about to leave. 

If you’re extra shy around him, he doesn’t remark on it. 

You’re levelheaded enough to know that he shouldn’t be so touchy with his younger female employee—his babysitter no less—especially after what happened, but it’s not as though he treats you like sleeping with you is a given. When a week goes by and nothing happens, you almost relax. Almost. Enough to let your guard down. 

But—

You can’t stop thinking about it though. It runs through your head every hour of every day, made worse by the fact that you see him six days a week, Sundays excluded. Sundays being your one day off, which you no longer look forward to but rather dread because Sundays mean no baby, no park, and no John Price.

So, you follow his lead and pretend like it didn’t happen. 

You think it’s past you; a terrible mistake that’ll never happen again until it happens again. 

Eight o’clock at night and the blue light from the television has begun to strain your eyes. Baby sleeping upstairs—you put him down a few hours earlier without much of a peep; had to check on him a few times, but otherwise the baby monitor sitting on the end table hasn’t so much as crackled, leaving you no choice but to doze off on the couch. 

When the door opens, it startles you awake. 

“Mr. Price?” you ask, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and clearing your throat.

John’s there when you twist around to peek over the back of the couch, filling out the door frame. Dishevelled after a long day’s work, his beard even more grown out than when he left earlier in the morning. A bit rougher around the edges, the day leaving its mark in the slight dark circles under his eyes and the set of his jaw, which only relaxes when he lays eyes on you. 

“Just me, sweetheart.”

“Sorry, I…the baby’s been asleep for awhile, so I just thought I’d—”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I know you’ve got it under control.”

“Let me just get my stuff and I’ll be out of your hair—”

He cuts you off with a wave, toeing his boots off at the same time. “No, no, no—you stay there and finish your movie. I’m gonna grab a drink and join you.”

There’s not much more you can say to that. Instead, you watch him take his bag upstairs to put away in the bedroom before you hear the sink turn on. Running water. 

You carefully avoid looking at him when John comes back downstairs, the creaking steps signalling his descent. He heads to the kitchen without stopping by the living room first. The light switches on with a click. The fridge door opens and bottles clinking together when he roots around for something to drink. 

And then you hear him make his way back to the living room. 

The unspoken pact to not bring up what happened the last time you spent any alone time together imbues you with a false sense of security. Part of you expects him to take the single recliner next to the couch, if only to put some distance between the two of you. 

Except when he comes back into the living room, he plops right down in the middle of the couch like always, close enough to you that you’re forced to scoot away, pressed up against the arm of the sofa. You shiver when he cracks open his beer and takes a swig, resting his arm on the back of the couch with the can held in a loose grip. 

“What’re we watching?” he asks, blatantly adjusting himself to get more comfortable on the couch. Even soft, the outline of his cock is visible through his trousers. 

You stare over at him nervously, unblinking. 

“Sweetheart?” John prompts when you don’t answer. 

“Oh, um…” You clear your throat again. “It’s just a Hallmark movie.”

“Cute. Well, we can keep it on. No sense changing it now.”

It’s tense for a little while. You keep your hands folded in your lap like a good girl and your eyes on the television. So you can’t stop inhaling the heady scent of tobacco and vanilla. So you can’t stop blinking your eyes, each blink heavier than the last until they spend more time shut than open. So you yawn and burrow deeper into the cushions, your head tipping back and nearly jarring you awake when you lean too far and topple over the side. 

When you lean the other way and start to doze off on his shoulder, he pulls you onto his lap. You squirm, initially resistant, but he shushes you before you can put up a fuss. 

“Just don’t want you to drool on my shirt,” he teases in a low murmur, smoothing a hand down your side and then it’s lights out for you. 

You wake to a blunt intrusion at your entrance. Half-awake and squirming, you vaguely feel him rub the tip of his cock up and down your pussy, teasing himself. The second you squirm just a little too much, he uses that little bit of movement to push the tip in. It pops in without much resistance; then the slow, methodical press inward, your walls squeezing around the thick length thrusting up into you. 

“Wha—” you whimper, keening when a big hand glides up your chest to squeeze a tit, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

“S’alright, baby, it’s just me,” John murmurs, his voice right in your ear. 

You come to gradually and then all at once, aware of your back pressed to his clothed chest and your legs spread around his, your ankles hooked around his calves. Skirt rolled up and panties pushed to the side, one of his arms locked around your waist like a seatbelt to hold you in place. 

“John, I’m—we c-can’t do it again—”

“Sorry, honey,” he apologises into your neck, kissing the area he just spoke into. “Had to be inside you again. S’all I’ve been able to think about since you came on my cock the other night. Promise it’ll be easier this time, okay, baby?”

He guides you down his length until he bottoms out, slick lips kissing the base of his dick. The pressure is overwhelming; in your belly, in your throat, in your head. Heart beating a million miles a minute. Walls throbbing around his length, thicker and heavier than you remembered. 

All you can think of now is the last time he had you like this, legs spread for him and pussy dripping wet. Taking his cock all sleepy and sweaty under his giant comforter, whimpering into his neck. 

It’s not as frantic this time, no rush to the finish line. He seems to like just burying his cock in you while he plays with your breasts, pinching and plucking your nipples until they’re pebbled and sore. His hands aren’t particularly soft either, callused from years of hard labour. When you whine and try to push his hands away, he shushes you again, not paying your protests any mind. 

“Fuck, these are pretty,” John praises, staring down at your tits from over your shoulder. “No, baby, jus’ watch your show. M’gonna use your pussy for a bit, okay?”

It’s just that it’s—

When he lets go of your breast to play with your clit instead, you melt, any resistance going up in flames. The heat fans over your cheeks, your eyelids too heavy to lift, vision blurring even when you try to focus. 

He helps you grind your hips down on him, big hands like manacles on your waist. Little undulations of your hips. Short, shallow thrusts that keep you both right on the edge, drenching his lap with your juices. When he gets bored of playing with your clit, he switches back to your breasts, pawing at them and then bending down to suck a nipple into his mouth. 

Any time you get distracted by what he’s doing, he stops, holding you down on his cock and coaxing you to focus on the television in front of you instead. 

When he jiggles your clit, you seize up, heart hammering in your throat. 

“Good girl, c’mon—jus’ like that.” John presses a hot kiss to your temple, arm tightening around your front to keep you close. Sweet talks you through your orgasm, all vaguely paternalistic and patronising in the best and worst way.  

He makes you lean forward so he can bounce you on his dick after, your hands braced on his knees to keep yourself upright. 

“Ah, ah, ah, ah—”

“Almost there, honey, jus’—fuck, perfect, yeah, tighten up like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He comes with a strangled moan, still cognizant enough to keep the volume down even if you can’t. Shuttles you down onto his cock a few more times until you’re filled to the brim with cum. 

In the aftermath, he sits you back against his sweat-matted chest and pushes his cum back into your sore cunt with his fingers when it dribbles out. Ignores your wounded little sounds like they’re just background noise. He even makes you suck his fingers to clean them up, the digits coated in your combined juices. 

“Best fuckin’ girl,” John growls, pressing another kiss to the side of your head. Your fingers twitch feebly in your lap. 

Pretending like it didn’t happen after the second time around doesn’t seem wise, but still you don’t know how to broach the subject. 

Especially since you know it’s going to happen again. 

John doesn’t say it outright, but his actions speak for themselves. An arm looped around your waist casually in line for coffee. Paying for the two of you in any situation, you having your own source of income be damned. 

“It’s my money anyway, sweetheart,” he says when you point that out. “Might as well just pay now.”

And doesn’t that just send you into a tizzy, head spinning and mouth agape. Embarrassingly so. 

Not to mention you still have this strange, sycophantic need to please him, even after everything. The complicated nature of your relationship aside, it still makes your heart flutter to hear him praise you for anything. 

That’s how you end up in his bed on a Saturday afternoon, taking a nap with him after a long day out in the sun. Two hours spent at the botanical gardens, the sun beating down on your head, lathering sunscreen on the baby’s sensitive little arms and legs, and swiping it over his cheeks. John sporting a mild sunburn near the collar of his shirt where he forgot to apply sunscreen and when you have the audacity to giggle, he pulls your baseball hat down over your eyes. 

It’s almost too easy for him to coax you into his bed, even though you’re adamant about keeping it clean. A hand firm on your back up the stairs. Already yawning when you put the baby down for a nap, so why not take one too? Ushering you into the bedroom when you say you can take the couch, but why, he presses, take the couch when you’ve already shared the bed before?

Well, because the last time—

He draws the blinds shut and climbs into bed, pulling you into his chest. 

You wake up to John plastered against your back, bare cock nudging against your cunt while he snores into your neck. You don’t remember him curling up next to you without any clothes on, but he must have taken off his pants in his sleep, now somewhere rumpled at the end of the bed. 

When you try to quietly pull away, his arms just tighten around you more, grumbling in his sleep. The sound makes you freeze, going quiet as a mouse. A few more minutes go by before you feel confident enough to try moving again, carefully trying to slide out from his hold. 

You wiggle a hand out, reaching for the other end of the bed.

The hand resting on your belly dips low, shoved between your legs and feeling you up before you can do more than gasp. The man behind you gives a short exhale, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, rising out of it like a wave now that he feels something wet under his hand.

“Oh, honey…why didn’t you tell me you needed my cock again? You’re leaking right through your panties,” John rasps, dragging your underwear down to mid-thigh. 

A big bear hand clamps over your mouth before you have a chance to protest. There’s nothing you can do to keep his knee from spreading your legs and feeding his cock into your drenched centre with his other hand. As soon as he notches the head against your entrance, it’s a smooth glide in. 

“There we go,” he pants into your neck. “Big stretch—ah, yeah, nice ‘n tight. That’s my pretty girl.”

He keeps your legs spread with a hand on the inside of your thigh. All you can do is moan behind his hand, humid breath blowing back around your face as you pant. So hot for it that you’re almost nauseous. 

You’re a bit too tight for him to fit his cock in you, so he has to work to stretch you out, bullying another inch into you with every thrust. The angle makes it tricky though; means he can’t get more than half of his cock into you. It’s hardly comfortable for you either, your leg already cramping. 

“My leg’s got a cramp,” you whine, unsure of what you want to happen. All you know is that you can’t keep this up. 

He readjusts his grip, but that just makes you hiss, wincing when that makes your leg twinge. Suddenly the world spins, the pillows going from comfortably under your head to right in your face, John manoeuvring you onto your tummy and hiking your hips up a few inches. It lets him get even deeper, the angle letting him slide right to the hilt. 

“Oh god, oh god—John, I can’t—”

“Shh—you’re alright, honey. Much better like this,” he breathes, settling on top of you. It takes him a second to get comfortable, nudging right up against a sensitive spot inside of you the whole time, so deep you can almost feel him in your throat. 

He weighs a ton on top of you, rutting between your thighs like he can’t hold himself back, his self-control snapping like brittle glass. Bristly beard chafing your neck when he buries his head to suck on the tender skin there, smothering you under his weight. Thighs trapping you in place, your memory jumping back to that time at the beach, but now there’s nothing between you. Just a thick cock pounding into you and moulding you around its shape.  

His hips slap against your ass with every thrust, the lewdest sound you’ve ever heard. 

“Gonna make sure it takes this time,” John grunts. “Wanna take care of my baby so bad? I’ll give you a couple to mind.”

That rattles you right to your core; shakes you to the foundations of who you are. You don’t know what to think, what to say—tongue tied and loose lipped all at once. You’ve let him come inside of you so many times that if it hasn’t taken already, surely it will soon. 

It slips out before you can take it back. “D-daddy, please—” 

That makes him lose his mind. Just a bit. 

“Fuck,” he snarls. “Again.”

He wedges his arm under you to curl his hand around your throat, tilting your head out. 

“Daddy—daddy—please, I wanna come—” you pant, repeating the same word until it sounds like nothing, tongue puffy in your mouth. 

His dick slips out at some point and he wrenches himself off you long enough to wrap his hand around himself and slap it against your ass a few times, cum tagging your skin. Your breath catches in your throat, whining when you clench down on nothing. One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s all the way back in, hammering the spot that makes you go cross-eyed and squeak. 

“Make daddy another baby, okay, sweetheart?” It’s not sweet. It’s not doting. It’s growled into your ear like a demand, punctuated by the way his hips snap forward, nearly sending you into the headboard. 

You’re practically an old hat at taking his cum now, squeezing up when you can feel it coming and giving him a nice little treat. He sinks his teeth into the back of your neck when he does, muffling the sound roaring out of him, and it hurts. 

He’s tender with you after though. Lavishes the line of your neck with soft kisses; murmurs sweet nothings into your ear while you cry fat tears onto the pillow. Even twists and turns so you’re no longer on your back but rather splayed across his chest again, urging you up for a deeper kiss with tongue. 

“‘Know you’re tired, sweetie, but this is for your own good,” John murmurs as he wedges a hard thigh between your legs and makes you ride it, grinding your sensitive, throbbing clit down on the muscle. “Can you come, baby? Jus’ like that—that’s good, baby—”

It hurts so good that you don’t even notice when you squirt, the emotions too big for you. It’s like being squeezed too tight, unable to catch your breath or say anything but the same word on a loop. John’s sweet about it though—wipes the sweat from your hairline and upper lip, talking you through it until you slump down on his chest, legs akimbo.   

For a bachelor, you think in a daze, he’d make a good husband.

The days grow colder and the sun sets earlier.

A while ago you thought maybe this babysitting gig would be temporary. That at some point you’d move on—maybe go back to school or apply for a more standard nine-to-five job. That’s how the trajectory of your life was supposed to go, you think. 

But the timing never seems right. Maybe you’ve grown too attached to the baby or maybe the pay is just too good to give up or maybe you’ve just become habituated to someone getting you off at least every other day. Still, it feels a bit weird to get paid for what essentially boils down to fucking a man and taking care of his baby. 

It comes up when you’re sitting out on the porch with him again, this time in his lap in the same adirondack chair, a blanket wrapped around you to keep you warm. John laces his fingers through yours, thumb stroking over your finger, burning a line into the skin.

“Doesn’t it make you feel weird to pay me for…” you say, trailing off with a cocked eyebrow. Surely he must catch your drift. 

He chuckles. You wait for the joke.

Your eyes must be big as moons staring up at him. 

“Don’t think of it as a paycheck, sweetheart. That’s your allowance.”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and swallow. 

“Okay,” you whisper. Then let him reel you back in for another kiss, his thumb resting over your ring finger and pressing.