Title: Baby, did you forget to take your meds?
Rating: NC-17 for language and rape.
Pairing: Mort Rainey/John Shooter Secret Window
Plot: Mostly PWP, but y'know. Mort is just beginning to figure out that things aren't quite as they seem.
A/N: This work of fiction was inspired by the song Meds by Placebo, and the movie Secret Window starring Johnny Depp. I do not own Mr. Rainey, or Mr. Shooter, which is probably the best for them.
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Although he knew from the start that things weren't quite as they seemed, he'd spent enough time alone to know that it was easier to just not question things. Without anyone else around to keep him sober and sane, it was just easier. Although it hurt him to find Cheeko in the state this Shooter fellow had left him, bloody and bludgeoned, and to see the home he'd worked to make his own and Amy's burnt to the ground, it was simply easier to sit back and wait. Just sit back and wait for Mr. Shooter to make a mistake; to slip up and forget to cover his tracks. Only then would Mort make a move to take back all that this man had stolen from him, his life, and yes, even his story.
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"Y'know, Mr. Rainey, it would've been easier from the start if you'd just accepted the story wasn't written by you."
"I didn't steal your story, you arrogant hick! I wrote it years before you, we've accomplished that fact, so just bugger off already."
"Aren't'cha gonna ask me why I did what I did? Why I killed your blind ol' dog and burnt down your nice house?"
"I know why you did it; you're insane! So how about you just go back to Mississippi or wherever the hell you came from, and leave me alone. Let me live my life, and continue writing stories that I come up with on my own, and you start learn to get your own ideas."
It had started out as a dream, one of the many Mort had on a frequent basis, no matter whether he slept in his usual place on the couch, or if he ended up for once in his bed. But the words that drifted through his consciousness, and the small flicks of saliva that accompanied them, were suddenly a whole lot more real. Peering through his crooked glasses and tousled locks of hair, the sight of said arrogant hick was less of a surprise than it should have been. Baring his usual grin and the wide brimmed black hat, John loomed over the barely coherent man, and laughed.
"This ain't the time to be sleeping, Mr. Rainey, this is serious business. I told you to fix the ending to my story for me."
"Get the hell out of my house!" Mort leapt to his feet, barely managing to catch himself from an unfortunate fall as he stumbled over the mess of decorative pillows scattered at his feet. "I told you to stay away from me. The magazine will be arriving by UPS tomorrow, and I'll show it to you then. Yeah, I'll prove to you then that you've been wrong all along! Published years before you said you wrote it… fuckin' hick… don't know what you're doing anymore." Brushing past the homely intruder, Mort trudged up the rickety wooden stairs to the upstairs portion of his home, overlooking the messy rooms downstairs. He hadn't heard John following him until the taller man shoved him face first into the door of his bedroom, steering him away from his primary direction towards his laptop.
"No, Mr. Rainey, 'cause that magazine don't exist! You're makin' it all up just to buy yourself more time, but I won't fall for it no more." He gave Mort another shove, this time through the open door and into the unused bedroom. "No, I'm gonna show you just how serious things are now." His usual grin twisted to a sneer, and he kicked the fallen man a few times, and then stepped on his back to hold him down while he hurried to unbuckle his old leather belt.
As he twisted around and peered up at his attacker, Mort seemed to suddenly realize what was soon to come, and he fought with a sudden new burst of strength. But after the years of erratic sleep patterns and frequent visits from a Mr. Jack Daniels, Mort couldn't fight the taller man off, even as Shooter dropped down beside him and didn't hold him back, only used both hands to tear the ratty old house coat from Mort's body, and then wrenched his torn PJ pants down and out of the way. The golden skin that met his eyes below these removed barriers were enough to toss aside any second thoughts that Shooter may have had as he stroked himself to further hardness, fisting a handful of Mort's hair and forcing his head twisted back in an awkward position to see better what was soon to be upon him.
"No, Shooter, this is nuts!" Mort clawed at the floorboards below, trying to catch a rift in the smooth surface and use it as leverage to tear himself away. "Don't do this, I'll write the ending to your fucking story, just don't do this!"
"Too late, Mr. Rainey, I tried to tell yah just how serious this is, but you weren't listenin'. That's your fault, and so is this." He forced Mort's legs apart and positioned himself between his glistening thighs, taught and moist with his fruitless attempts to get away. All his movements stopped at once; his entire body tensed and arched like a bow string as Shooter breeched the tight ring of muscle guarding his entrance, and buried himself to the hilt within Mort's hot passage.
"Shit!" Mort cursed under his breath and began struggling again; clawing for anything within reach in hopes to pull himself away from Shooter. The skinnier man atop him held his hips, digging his boney fingers and uncut nails into the skin until it bled, much like the tears at his entrance as Shooter's relentless thrusts to and from his body quickened and deepened.
As inexperienced as Mort was in a situation like this, Shooter was oblivious of the pleasure one can inflict from buried deep within, and until a small, quiet moan escaped from Mort's chewed lips, Shooter grinned with the satisfaction that he was breaking the smaller man.
"Shut up, Rainey!" He threatened, grabbing a few tousled locks of the multi-shaded hair and thrusting his face into the hardwood floor below, again and again for good measure until a little bit of blood pooled below Mort's nose and lips. "This ain't for you to enjoy, this h—here is for you to learn! Y've'gotta learn to take people serious, an' do as you're told!"
As Mort whimpered in pain and defeat, face down in the slowly growing pool of blood, his body tightened and tensed, then released and squeezed again with each of Shooter's brutal thrusts, this new feeling of being completely enveloped compared to the loose wet heat of a woman sent Shooter over the edge, and he spilt himself deep within Mort's torn body. Filling Mort to the brim and beyond with the milky white substance, Shooter pulled out and carelessly fell back against the wall, fumbling with his belt again. Mort let out a few little groans of pain as he raised himself onto his elbows, the movement only sending further jolts of pain through his lower regions.
"I'm gonna get you for this, Shooter! You twisted fuck!" He bore a taunting grin and turned to face Shooter, only to find that he was alone in the room. Grabbing the broad brim black hat from the floor near by, Mort gathered his remaining strength and staggered to his window. Down below the front door slammed shut, then the patio screen door creaked, but no body filled the hollow sounds of feet running into the darkness. "Shooter!"