A/N: This wasn't supposed to turn out like this…it really wasn't…but it did. Dedicated to my Creative Writing teacher who urged me to be more descriptive.
Warning: This story contains violence, rape, and all around Duncan abuse. It's not something you should be reading if you're under 16.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the TDI/TDA/TDWT characters. But I do own John.
"Liberty," boomed Wednesday, as they walked to the car, "is a bitch who must be bedded on a mattress of corpses."
- Wednesday, American Gods
One thing was clear; there was no love involved. The way she constantly held onto his belt, the lack of eye contact - whatever. There was no love, but there was sex, there was obsession, and there was hatred - and that made it OK.
Heather had a way about her to make every sadistic word turn to honey on her lips, all the insults, the mocking smile, everything was velvet as she spoke it - but the abuse showed itself afterwards. Duncan said it was OK though, it was better than nothing. Nothing meant feeling her heart beat in the back of his mind as he tried to sleep, seeing the spectral image of her eyes,
Something is always better than nothing he decided, and that was why he found himself in front of her door - a plain rectangle with a brass knob and the brass numbers 305 attached to the front. Slowly, he brought his hand up to it and knocked only once. That was his assigned number of knocks. The next guy was two knocks, the other was three - it was how she could tell them apart and choose whether or not she really wanted to be with them that night.
Sometimes Duncan stood out there for hours, just waiting.
He was lucky that night; she answered it almost immediately with a dirty blanket wrapped around herself in a makeshift gown and a smile that reached her eyes. He really hated her for smiling, because she knew he knew exactly what had been happening only moments before in the bedroom.
"Duncan," she drawled and clicked her tongue, "He's still here, but if you'd like to take a seat and wait for a bit we'll be finished," she pulled open the door and stepped to the side, without a trace of hesitance Duncan stepped inside - the moment the door closed he could smell the sex, sweaty and loud. Without a word he marched to the couch, evading all the crap she left littered on the ugly maroon carpet - pillows, cigarette butts, condom packets, and even wine bottles. The couch was no better, chip bags, and other wrappers shoved between pillows. It was okay though; this wasn't her real home, as she said once, "you don't bring shit into your house."
He expected her to go back to her lover in the bedroom, but she stared at him with a smirk on her face and the devil in her eyes, "or you could join us, you know. You said you always wanted a threesome, remember?" her voice was silk, her legs were more than perfect and her borderline anorexic body was to die for…he wanted to fuck her now, he didn't want to wait.
But there was someone else in there. A guy too…
Duncan stared at her for a long moment then shook his head, "no way babe,"
She didn't go back to the bedroom though, she remained in front of him with her hands on her hips and her stilettos tapping so irritably. Taptaptaptaptap.
"I'll add a strike," Heather said after a long moment of silence - Duncan never stood up so fast in his life, Heather smiled and stooped over just a little bit to kiss him softly on the lips, "good little boy," she said with sugar coated acid then turned down the hall. Without a word Duncan followed her down the hall, his head hanging and praying to God that the guy would at least let him top.
The lights were dim in the bedroom and along with the potent scent of sex mixed in traces of cinnamon candles and smoke. On the center of the bed he was there - a tank, far more 'man' that Duncan ever was as Heather had described him once - and it was true.
Heather walked over to the man tied on her bed and yanked off the blindfold.
"John, this is Duncan," she said to the man who had his wrists bound, "Duncan this is John. John is 32, married with kids, and is going to be fucking you tonight,"
Both heads snapped towards Heather, she waved her hand, "oh come on boys, after all I do for you," the blanket pooled around her feet, she wore only a black lace g-string and the nipple guards she got just a week before. Heather took a seat on the chair and crossed one leg over the other, through cracks between her legs they could get just a shot of her shaven pussy. Both men felt the blood flow start again.
"Duncan," she said in a voice, and suddenly he felt like a child again. Then again, from anyone else's perspective they would have seen a boy rather than a man, "you'll behave, won't you?"
He stared at her, shaven and wet - he licked his lips then met her eyes, trying his best to look like he wasn't scared of what was to come next, "whatever you say babe, I'm game,"
Again, she smiled with her eyes, the chair creaked as she leaned back and exposed more of herself, "I'll have to reward you later," she said and waited with a twinkle in her eyes.
Duncan stared at John, who was naked with his wrists still bound and his mouth still gagged. They stared at the restraints, then to Heather with pleading eyes.
"My God you're pathetic. Fine, you can untie your wrists and remove the gag." Heather said irritably, her patience was running low, Duncan recognized the expression. It meant that it they took much longer they'd be feeling inexplicable amounts of pain on their backs.
Duncan took out his knife from his back pocket and without a second thought he held the silk taut beneath the knife and sliced through it, then pulled down the gag.
John pulled his wrists free once the tie no longer held him back and smacked Duncan hard across the face, the crack even making Heather wince. The force knocked Duncan over onto the bed and before Duncan could even swear John took total control of the situation, climbing on top of Duncan and pressing their lips hard together. It was painful, more so than with Heather. He was all teeth and lips his stubble scraped like sandpaper against Duncan's jaw and cheeks, leaving his very sensitive skin burning and itchy.
"Fuck you!" Duncan gasped between kisses and struggled for a hint of equality in their situation.
"That tie was from my wife." John replied and moved away from Duncan's lips, down his jaw and to his neck; biting down hard enough to draw blood. Duncan swore again, and kicked John in the stomach in response to the bite, smiling through the tears that stung in his eyes when his rapist groaned in pain.
Really, Duncan didn't blame John for being so aggressive; had their spots been reversed and Duncan was the tank he would have been worse. After all, if he hadn't appeared then John would've been allowed to finish in the comfort of a warm, wet vagina, rather than a man's asshole.
"You've done it now faggot," John hissed viciously and sat up and yanked down Duncan's baggy pants and boxers and grinned at what he saw. "Well whaddya know?" John moved downwards to Duncan's thighs and slowly ran his tongue across the freshest cut, adjacent to six others, lined up and uniform.
"Who the fuck cares?" Duncan yelled as he tried his damn best not to cower away, he was not a coward, "I can do whatever the hell I want to my body. At least I'm not a cheating bastard like you! I still have potential."
"Potential?" John laughed bitterly and grabbed onto Duncan's waist with more force than necessary and rolled him over. The silk pillow cases were smooth against Duncan's cheeks, the only thing he focused on as he allowed himself to be propped up to make entrance easier.
"You sold your soul to the devil boy in hope of finding an angel."
There was no way he could deny that, he did. Instead Duncan closed his eyes tight and winced as he felt the mattress shift as John positioned himself. Duncan could smell her in the sheets, like vanilla was drowned into the silk, and for a brief moment, he was almost happy. As long they followed through he would get to fuck her, as long as he went through Hell. And though she didn't make a sound Duncan could hear her smile, and hear her thoughts. She just loved the sight of himself being bared by another man - every secret and insecurity being painted onto the silk canvas that would soon be painted red.
With Duncan's back arched and ass sticking out in the air he felt John spread his ass cheeks apart then the tip of his cock against his entrance.
"your potential is shit," John whispered almost affectionately before placing his hands on Duncan's hips thrusting forward.
It hurt more than anything Duncan had ever experienced before, more than the burns and the whip, more than any beating he had ever took. It was tearing him apart from the inside and he couldn't help but cry out and wail pathetically each time John thrust and pulled with a small grunt. Over and over and over again it felt like it was all being torn away. Tears poured openly down Duncan's cheeks and slid into his mouth, mixing with blood from when he bit down on his tongue. Salt and copper.
"F-fu-ck you!" Duncan screamed out savagely and pressed his head tight against the headboard and tried to focus on the pressure he felt in his head, anything to distract himself.
It felt like purgatory, waiting for all his sins to be totalled before he was sent off to either Heaven or Hell, happiness or death. He waited, crying, begging, wailing for it to stop, but it wouldn't. It kept going on and on…
Until finally, he came with an animalist howl, filling up Duncan's broken ass with everything he had been saving from his playtime with Heather. It felt so disgusting, so dirty, then John pulled out with a sharp tug, his iron grip released and Duncan fell onto his stomach, blood and semen dripped out onto the back of his thighs. He closed his eyes and cried into the pillow, his snot, tears, and blood all dripping into his mouth. Duncan couldn't care less though.
There was the sound of skin touching skin, sloppy, wet slithers as he listened to John and Heather kiss, moans. Then there was the sound of clothes rustling, zippers being tugged up and shoes being put on. Heavy footsteps strode to the door then descended down the hall. A door opened - a door was slammed shut. Duncan relished in the silence which followed for the moments afterwards.
"Do you hurt, baby?" Heather cooed, breaking the silence with her sweetened voice then her heels clicked towards the bed. The mattress sagged slightly as she took a seat on the edge and carefully ran her fingertips down Duncan's spine. Goosebumps appeared on his skin a moment later, the hairs on the back of his neck stood. He wanted to sleep.
Duncan put up no resistance as Heather rolled him around and sank deeper into his pain as his weight was forced onto his backside. But she leaned forward and kissed him gently on his bruised lips and licked them, and for that Duncan swore he loved her. She treated him as if he were an injured bird, innocent and fragile, she ran kisses down his chest, his stomach. Heather was so kind, and so beautiful.
She had driven him to obsession, near madness in the period of time they've known each other. She manipulated him, she allowed a violent man to practically rape him, she smiled as it happened and kissed the rapist goodbye with more tongue than necessary.
But Heather kissed it better - so kind, so beautiful.