Watermelon
By: Holly Rose E.
Rating: R
Summary: It was like masturbation: secret and deeply shameful.
Author's Note: I like MasoJim... Maybe I should make a series... Hmmm... Of course, there isn't any real point to this, besides me ruining the God-like image of Jim that so many have created in their minds...
*****
Watermelon
*****
He wasn't a fruity person, but neither was he a huge vegetable fan. He had a fond liking to purp juice, but he supposed it was only because he was practically brought up on purps.
His favorite fruit, however, was the watermelon. It was rare on Montressor, so whenever it came in, Jim had made sure to save up on tips... or lost money of others.
It was strange, the watermelon. A texture all of its own and it tasted nothing like any of the other fruits Jim had ever tried. The thinner it was, the filmier and sheerer it was, the less juice; on the inside, it was nearly empty. But near the surface, how full it was. How bright and livid it was, full of its essence.
Jim sighed, rolling over onto his back, restless. He'd been trying for hours to fall asleep, the nearest he'd come was to glimpse Flatulantians dancing ballet in bright, neon blue and pink tutus. That, easily enough, snapped him rite out of the half-unconscious state he'd managed to drift into.
Sleep had been elusive as of late, running into a forest of massive trunks and large, canopy leaves hiding behind the trees and giggling at his futile attempts to find her.
He had a cure for that
[didn't everyone?]
it was just that he wasn't particularly fond of it.
No, that wasn't true, he _did_ want to
[you fucking _need_ to, Jim, you're so goddamn weak]
use it, he just knew that it would b hard to hide it from his mum, considering it was the middle of summer after all. He didn't want to worry his mother; she didn't need that.
He'd only stopped after he began to feel the suspicion emanate from her being, worry oozing out into the air and attempt to strangle him. He always told her it was from solar-surfing.
A sleepy, lazy grin skated its way across his features; she'd only seen the lesser.
[fucking piece of shit, Jim, you're just a piece of shite]
He bit his lip and stared out his window, eyes darkening to a murky ocean, dangerous with the most mysterious and lethal creatures floating beneath.
The stars had died tonight, none twinkled or danced in the blue-black sky. The moon was alone, having been abandoned by his friends, yet continued to look as if it possessed not a care n the world. It hung idly, leaning against an invisible wall to the humans' eyes; Jim swore he could see it swinging there, as if lying leisurely in a hammock.
Sighing, he rolled to his stomach, staring in silent defiance at his top dresser drawer.
[go, Jimbo, it helps. it always makes u feel so damn rested. go on. go, my sweet, and make this go the hell away]
He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, the battle nearly won when it so quickly began.
[three years Jim, not long at all, love]
He growled and walked over to his dresser, placing his hands over the cool metallic knobs, thumb tracing over the pattern design beneath.
Nervousness shot down his spine, causing him to shiver as he looked over his shoulder, a thin window of hair blocking his view slightly. His breath, already coming in hard gasps, hitched as he opened the drawer and dug through the clothes, pushing them far n the back. At the bottom, in the right-hand corner, resided a little silk pocket. Withdrawing the pocket, his breath began to settle, his chest unclenching--the black, smoky fingers releasing their death-grip on his heart.
Without bothering to restore the dresser and his clothes to its original state, he sauntered over to his bed, already light-headed with a high. He sat down and dumped the contents onto the sheets, one leg cocked at the knee, the other leg residing beneath.
He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back peacefully as he listened; listened to the crickets and assorted bugs chirp their melancholic symphonies and the wind whistle soothingly a tune of old. He could hear the sounds of the old inn, they were lucky the poor girl hadn't given way yet.
[hear the songs? They're playing for _you_ Jim. All for you]
He splayed his fingers over the items, tracing his fingers over the preferred of the three: the Scalpel, called so affectionately.
Twirling it about his fingers, he grinned, before placing it upon the lying leg to take off his shirt, arching his back to hear it crack, in hopes of waking up enough to fully enjoy the forthcoming sensations.
In the darkness of the night, as he sat there half-naked, a blush crept up onto his cheeks to dust them with the loving skill of an artist. His eyes flicked to the door, anxiousness creeping in. It was irrational to think someone would come in; his mother was lying asleep peacefully in her own room, in her own bed.
It was like masturbation in a sense, what he did and was going to: very secretive and deeply shameful. He didn't think he could handle being caught.
He thought it to be more like sex.
First, there was the foreplay. Scraping the blade against his skin, teasing what lied beneath, cleaning off the area. Goosebumps arose and spread over his body, an excited shiver ran down his spin.
Next, entrance. Between ribs, the point of the scalpel was introduced
[how deep till we reach a lung? Let's try, Jimmy, let's try to reach the destination]
to his insides. Deeper and deeper, until nearly all was sheathed inside of him.
Breath caught in his throat, choking him as he bit on a muffled grown, pain and pleasure mixed within him. His mind was at war, one side screaming to remove the alien piece from his chest, while the other said and cried for more penetration.
Next, protrusion and extension of making it better. Gripping the handle tight, he bit on his lip and ground his teeth together. His head fell back as he dragged the knife out to his side, before bringing it back once more.
Finally, there was the release he had been craving
[no hug for you. To damn disgusting
how could you possibly think she even cares? She thinks you're fucking worthless and you are, oh, how you are, you don't deserve ANYTHING that you've EVER GOTTEN! _Repent_! PUNISH]
as blood began to ooze and gush from the laceration, cascading in falls of rich
[watermelon]
essence or beading along in tiny rivulets.
Collapsing back on his bed, he squirmed as he tried to make himself comfortable. He trailed a finger over the gash, coating it in his own blood before licking it off, reveling n the glory that he had caused.
Forget sex, this had to be a thousand times better.
'The second item', he remembered, 'mustn't forget that'. It was a bottle of alcohol to keep from getting infected and sick, therefore
[once more]
needlessly worrying his mother. He alternated between the second and third, cleaning and spraying on the bottle of hairspray [1] he'd stolen from his mother. Puffiness of scars was something he desired. All of them did, except for the originals.
Some were just gashes like the new one--he'd decide a name for it later--others were small marks put closely together to resemble bar codes [2] or even a picket fence. A few were words, words carved in the most deep of self-loathing moments.
'Horrid, anger, hate, bad, Disgusting, 0%' were some, but his all- time favorite was, 'Son'.
He put everything away (after cleaning up the wound at least some, so Sarah didn't get suspicious about any bloodstains, considering he wasn't a girl) and laid back down.
A black oblivion, this time, was quick to claim me
-The End-
*****
[1] I don't know if they'd have hairspray. . We'll just say they do for the sake of it all, no?
[2] Same thing. Bar codes... no bar codes? Oh, who the f*ck really knows?
And that's about it. Yes, the ending was bad, but I suppose that is one way that you could be able to tell me apart from any other fic-writers here. Yup. Holly Rose E. writes shite endings... and she isn't ashamed to admit it! YAY!
Review, lovelies.
Love and Peace
-Holly
By: Holly Rose E.
Rating: R
Summary: It was like masturbation: secret and deeply shameful.
Author's Note: I like MasoJim... Maybe I should make a series... Hmmm... Of course, there isn't any real point to this, besides me ruining the God-like image of Jim that so many have created in their minds...
*****
Watermelon
*****
He wasn't a fruity person, but neither was he a huge vegetable fan. He had a fond liking to purp juice, but he supposed it was only because he was practically brought up on purps.
His favorite fruit, however, was the watermelon. It was rare on Montressor, so whenever it came in, Jim had made sure to save up on tips... or lost money of others.
It was strange, the watermelon. A texture all of its own and it tasted nothing like any of the other fruits Jim had ever tried. The thinner it was, the filmier and sheerer it was, the less juice; on the inside, it was nearly empty. But near the surface, how full it was. How bright and livid it was, full of its essence.
Jim sighed, rolling over onto his back, restless. He'd been trying for hours to fall asleep, the nearest he'd come was to glimpse Flatulantians dancing ballet in bright, neon blue and pink tutus. That, easily enough, snapped him rite out of the half-unconscious state he'd managed to drift into.
Sleep had been elusive as of late, running into a forest of massive trunks and large, canopy leaves hiding behind the trees and giggling at his futile attempts to find her.
He had a cure for that
[didn't everyone?]
it was just that he wasn't particularly fond of it.
No, that wasn't true, he _did_ want to
[you fucking _need_ to, Jim, you're so goddamn weak]
use it, he just knew that it would b hard to hide it from his mum, considering it was the middle of summer after all. He didn't want to worry his mother; she didn't need that.
He'd only stopped after he began to feel the suspicion emanate from her being, worry oozing out into the air and attempt to strangle him. He always told her it was from solar-surfing.
A sleepy, lazy grin skated its way across his features; she'd only seen the lesser.
[fucking piece of shit, Jim, you're just a piece of shite]
He bit his lip and stared out his window, eyes darkening to a murky ocean, dangerous with the most mysterious and lethal creatures floating beneath.
The stars had died tonight, none twinkled or danced in the blue-black sky. The moon was alone, having been abandoned by his friends, yet continued to look as if it possessed not a care n the world. It hung idly, leaning against an invisible wall to the humans' eyes; Jim swore he could see it swinging there, as if lying leisurely in a hammock.
Sighing, he rolled to his stomach, staring in silent defiance at his top dresser drawer.
[go, Jimbo, it helps. it always makes u feel so damn rested. go on. go, my sweet, and make this go the hell away]
He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, the battle nearly won when it so quickly began.
[three years Jim, not long at all, love]
He growled and walked over to his dresser, placing his hands over the cool metallic knobs, thumb tracing over the pattern design beneath.
Nervousness shot down his spine, causing him to shiver as he looked over his shoulder, a thin window of hair blocking his view slightly. His breath, already coming in hard gasps, hitched as he opened the drawer and dug through the clothes, pushing them far n the back. At the bottom, in the right-hand corner, resided a little silk pocket. Withdrawing the pocket, his breath began to settle, his chest unclenching--the black, smoky fingers releasing their death-grip on his heart.
Without bothering to restore the dresser and his clothes to its original state, he sauntered over to his bed, already light-headed with a high. He sat down and dumped the contents onto the sheets, one leg cocked at the knee, the other leg residing beneath.
He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back peacefully as he listened; listened to the crickets and assorted bugs chirp their melancholic symphonies and the wind whistle soothingly a tune of old. He could hear the sounds of the old inn, they were lucky the poor girl hadn't given way yet.
[hear the songs? They're playing for _you_ Jim. All for you]
He splayed his fingers over the items, tracing his fingers over the preferred of the three: the Scalpel, called so affectionately.
Twirling it about his fingers, he grinned, before placing it upon the lying leg to take off his shirt, arching his back to hear it crack, in hopes of waking up enough to fully enjoy the forthcoming sensations.
In the darkness of the night, as he sat there half-naked, a blush crept up onto his cheeks to dust them with the loving skill of an artist. His eyes flicked to the door, anxiousness creeping in. It was irrational to think someone would come in; his mother was lying asleep peacefully in her own room, in her own bed.
It was like masturbation in a sense, what he did and was going to: very secretive and deeply shameful. He didn't think he could handle being caught.
He thought it to be more like sex.
First, there was the foreplay. Scraping the blade against his skin, teasing what lied beneath, cleaning off the area. Goosebumps arose and spread over his body, an excited shiver ran down his spin.
Next, entrance. Between ribs, the point of the scalpel was introduced
[how deep till we reach a lung? Let's try, Jimmy, let's try to reach the destination]
to his insides. Deeper and deeper, until nearly all was sheathed inside of him.
Breath caught in his throat, choking him as he bit on a muffled grown, pain and pleasure mixed within him. His mind was at war, one side screaming to remove the alien piece from his chest, while the other said and cried for more penetration.
Next, protrusion and extension of making it better. Gripping the handle tight, he bit on his lip and ground his teeth together. His head fell back as he dragged the knife out to his side, before bringing it back once more.
Finally, there was the release he had been craving
[no hug for you. To damn disgusting
how could you possibly think she even cares? She thinks you're fucking worthless and you are, oh, how you are, you don't deserve ANYTHING that you've EVER GOTTEN! _Repent_! PUNISH]
as blood began to ooze and gush from the laceration, cascading in falls of rich
[watermelon]
essence or beading along in tiny rivulets.
Collapsing back on his bed, he squirmed as he tried to make himself comfortable. He trailed a finger over the gash, coating it in his own blood before licking it off, reveling n the glory that he had caused.
Forget sex, this had to be a thousand times better.
'The second item', he remembered, 'mustn't forget that'. It was a bottle of alcohol to keep from getting infected and sick, therefore
[once more]
needlessly worrying his mother. He alternated between the second and third, cleaning and spraying on the bottle of hairspray [1] he'd stolen from his mother. Puffiness of scars was something he desired. All of them did, except for the originals.
Some were just gashes like the new one--he'd decide a name for it later--others were small marks put closely together to resemble bar codes [2] or even a picket fence. A few were words, words carved in the most deep of self-loathing moments.
'Horrid, anger, hate, bad, Disgusting, 0%' were some, but his all- time favorite was, 'Son'.
He put everything away (after cleaning up the wound at least some, so Sarah didn't get suspicious about any bloodstains, considering he wasn't a girl) and laid back down.
A black oblivion, this time, was quick to claim me
-The End-
*****
[1] I don't know if they'd have hairspray. . We'll just say they do for the sake of it all, no?
[2] Same thing. Bar codes... no bar codes? Oh, who the f*ck really knows?
And that's about it. Yes, the ending was bad, but I suppose that is one way that you could be able to tell me apart from any other fic-writers here. Yup. Holly Rose E. writes shite endings... and she isn't ashamed to admit it! YAY!
Review, lovelies.
Love and Peace
-Holly