Author's Note-

'Well, at least it didn't take me forever to get this one up... I wrote it in first-person again, because I felt that it was easier for readers to relate to that way. Besides, I just like writing in first-person; its harder for me, therefore that makes me work harder to ensure that it comes out right. Anyway, this chapter contains a much higher amount of mature material than the last two, so... well, I'm not sure what else to say about it, but yeah. So if you don't like, don't read.

Plus, this is a long, loooong chapter, about the length of ch. 1 and 2 combined. So be ready to sit there for a while.'

~Tobi


The alarm goes off, screeching loud enough to wake the dead and systematically causing my fist to crash down upon it. Again. Uttering a few more strangled cries before finally dying, the red numbers flicker feebly, then fade completely. I groan and roll over to face it, forcing my eyes open to see that I've finally killed it. A glance at the wall clock tells me that it's three-thirty in the afternoon - approximately ten hours after I normally get up. Considering the fact I've been mercilessly beating my innocent alarm clock every thirty minutes since then, its no wonder that it died.

I lay in bed for another few minutes, staring at the alarm and dreading having to actually get up and do something before finally heaving myself out of bed. It's not too long before I'm reminded of why I didn't want to get out of bed in the first place; the wet, sticky substance between my legs that has since dried to my boxers, causing everything to stick together. I stand up and rub my eyes, walking over to the sink. I turn the hot water on and feel the water flowing from the faucet until it starts to warm up, then wet the towel. After bracing myself, I pull back the front of my underwear and start cleaning, my eyes facing forward, looking away from it. The smell of sweat and semen eventually reaches me and I gag, throwing my free hand over my mouth and bending over the sink. Had I gotten up and cleaned it earlier it wouldn't have been so bad; but no, I had to wait and let it sit there, absorbing the sweat and making my whole situation worse.

After I'm done cleaning myself, I toss the towel into the sink, not caring about the dishes and cups already in there. The only attempt I make at being in any way hygienic is changing my boxers - which I throw at the hamper, and, of course, miss. I walk over to the nightstand and pull open the drawer, pushing aside the Xanax and Prozac which I I haven't been taking anyway, and pull out a small mirror. I tilt it in my hand so that I can see my face from an angle and take note of the dark circles beginning to form under my eyes. The whites themselves are red and distressed, making the light purple irises seem more maroon in color. 'My God, I look like I was drunk last night,' I think to myself before putting the mirror away with a sigh.

I throw on an old beige bathrobe that I had packed before I moved here (and never used) and opened the door, stepping outside to get the mail. I immediately regret not having put any shoes on as I step out onto ice and slip, falling hard on my ass and choking back a scream. I quickly scramble back inside and shut the door, shivering and swearing under my breath. Only I would be so ditzy as to go outside in a bathrobe without checking to see if there's ice or not. I start to lean my back against the door when someone knocks on it, making me jump and cry out again. I jerk the door open, eyes narrowed and glaring, to see Mark looking at me cock-eyed with a grin on his face. "What was that?" he asked, referring to my slipping on the ice and busting my ass. I slam the door in his face and start to head over to my bed before turning around to go back and lock it. Figures. The second I go outside someone starts looking at me, making sure I never have a moment of peace outside my home. Its common knowledge that I'm hiding something now, god forbid anyone have the balls to just ask me what it is instead of showering me with dinner invitations (all of which slyly ask me to 'bring something') and compliments (fake ones). It's gotten to the point where, if someone actually asked me, I'd scream 'I'm a faggot!' at the top of my lungs, just to get them to shut the hell up. As far as I'm concerned, I'm dead to the world, and everyone in it.

"C'mon, Wonka, what's is wrong with you? You've been in there for two weeks."

Okay, maybe not Mark. New thought: If any but Mark asked me, I would tell them.

"Shut the hell up and go away!" I yell at the door before taking off the robe and throwing it at the hamper. Missing again.

There's a few moments of silence, as if Mark couldn't wrap his brain around the fact that Pierre, the 'girly little frenchie' had just cursed at him. Finally, "What?"

Instead of dignifying his remark with an answer, I head over to the refrigerator and pull out a package of bacon; something I normally can't stand, but need whenever I'm stressing. I turn the burner on and throw and already greasy skillet on top of it. Cutting the package open I pull a thick slab of it out and throw it into the skillet, pulling the pieces apart with my fingers. As the temperature starts to rise and the bacon starts sizzling, and pull a fork out of the dish washer and start flipping them frantically. "Cook, goddamn it!" Some grease pops and catches me on the chest. I wince, and pull the skillet off, dumping its contents, grease and all, onto a plate and carry it over to my bed. Bacon is my one vice - thick, greasy, disgustingly fattening bacon. If I'm pissed off, I eat bacon. If I'm depressed, I eat bacon. If I lose something, I have to eat bacon before I look for it.

Ugh, I can just feel my arteries clogging and my skin breaking out, but its just so good. Any more stress and I'll end up like my uncle.

Around seven o'clock (and hours of tearing the house apart looking for fatty foods) there's another knock on the door. I refrain from screaming at the door again, and try to ignore it. Whoever it is knocks again, louder this time. I ignore them still. They knock again. I leap up from the bed and open the closet, tearing clothes out and throwing them on the floor as I look for my robe before remembering that it was one the ground next to the hamper. I pick it up and throw it on, answering the door and looking furious.

I open the door to find Natalie standing there, holding a bundle of mail. She takes one look at me and her smile fades, giving away to a worried, slightly fearful expression. "A-Are you okay?" she asks, her concern genuine. I can see her looking past me at the clothes and trash all over the floor. Her eyes snap back to me as she notices that I'm staring right at her, watching her stare at how disgusting my house is.

"No." I answer honestly. "Not really."

"Oh..." she looks down and around me, trying to avoid eye contact. "Well, I saw that your mailbox was full, and I figured that maybe you didn't have time to get it or something, and-"

Now she's just trying not to set me off. She knows my mailbox is right outside my door, and she knows that if I wanted to interact in any way with people, I probably would have got it. It's probably another excuse to talk to me. I remember that I should feel sorry for her, but at the moment I'm just feeling too apathetic. Sorry world, I don't give a shit right now. I need some 'me' time. "Yeah, thanks," I say, interrupting her and taking the mail.

She stops talking and bites her lip as I shut the door.

Bills, bills, overdue bills, junk mail, more overdue bills, and a letter from my parents. I sit down at the table and scatter the letters in front of me and try to open the letter, but can't get my fingernail under the flap. Eventually I end up biting the corner off and tearing it open with my finger. I pull out the letter, which is written on lavender scented paper with charcoal-gray ink, as usual. Only one page this time. Great. I only have to read one page of Father bragging about all the contests he's won, and the awards that he's gotten. I really can't believe that I used to act like that only two months ago. Nevertheless, I read the letter, which starts out with the usual 'We wish your presence here at home and hope that you are excelling in your training.' I read on in boredom as Father describes his recent trips to Paris and Japan, to judge various cooking tournaments. Towards the end, I stop breathing as I read, 'We are planning to come visit on December 23, through December 26, for the holidays. We hope that you are still the brilliant, talented boy you were when you left home!'

'Shit shit shit shit shit -' I throw the letter down and scramble to pick up the house. I pick up all the clothes scattered across the floor, throwing some into the hamper and scrambling to put others on hooks and into the closet. Once done, I hurry to place all the dishes in the dishwasher, not bothering to check whether or not they are dirty. The sound of a dish shattering after my fingers slip and I drop it finally slows me down. 'You're going to be okay, Pierre, they're coming tomorrow, not today,' I desperately try to reassure myself, for fear that I might totally lose it before they even get here. 'You still have plenty of time to prepare, Pierre, plenty of time, don't rush don't rush don't rush -'

My heart beating a million miles an hour I manage to control myself, and after filling the dishwasher I sit down at the table to sort out my mail, separating the bills and junk mail, etc. If I go to bed early, that will leave me less time to prepare tomorrow, while if I stay up all night, I'll be tires the next day and Father will berate me for not resting. Oh, decisions, decisions...

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Well, apparently going to bed early wasn't the best idea I've ever had. I wake up the next morning and have plenty of time to clean up, but I forgot about preparing a meal for them, and I'm still tired. So here I am, at noon, frantically tearing my hair out of my skull and trying to think of possible excuses when it hits me - Fuck it. Just fuck it. I didn't have time to do it because I was being a lazy son of a bitch and didn't check my mail, so what? I won't even get dressed. I'm not ready, they can come tomorrow.

My tough attitude lasts for about ten seconds, and melts away when I hear that dreaded knock. 'Already?' I shudder uncontrollably, smooth out my robe, and walk over to the door. Oddly enough, I don't hear the usual bickering and arguing from the other side. I open the door and see why; it's Shea. As soon as I get ready to deal with my parents I find out its not them at all. Wow, God must really hate me.

"Umm... hello She-"

"Shea sorry about scaring you," he said, interrupting me in the middle of my sentence and not stopping. "No mean make you scared, Shea just like Wonka, Shea not know that Wonka afraid of Shea,"

I blink. "I - I'm not afraid of you, it's just..." I look at him. He looks so dejected. Well, this is it. Do I want to accept myself for who I am and start my first relationship as a gay man, or do I want to chicken out and risk the chance of either dying alone or marrying some random girl I can't stand just to keep people from finding out? My heart starts beating still faster, and I can't even think straight. My palms are sweating. I feel like slamming the door shut and curling into a ball to die, rather than face this. Am I going to ask Shea out and be happy, thus alienating myself from my family? Or am I going to reject him and all my other feelings and die a miserable, angry, yet respected old man? Happiness or respect? Alienation or acceptance? All that thinking about how I'd come out to the next person who asked me, I know I was just telling myself that to get my mind to shut the hell up. I was hiding out in my own house, barricading myself from the outside world so that I would never have to face this moment, but now it's right here in front of me and I have no idea what to do. I should have been thinking about it instead of acting like I already knew what I would do, like I was impervious to the heat-of-the-moment.

My mind still whirling, Shea looks at me, appearing genuinely concerned about how I'm doing. "Wonka's eyes red. Shea sorry, make it all better - come in?" Until after he said that, I hadn't noticed that I was crying, frustrated tears pouring out of my eyes and down my pale face. "Eyes all dark and crying, not good." he says when I don't answer him. "Sorry..."

I don't really know what just happened, but I just couldn't stand to see him like that, feeling guilty and nervous. Somehow, in some way, I managed to wrap my arms around his neck without realizing it and now I'm kissing him, my eyes closed and my chest pressed hard against the bottom of his. His breath at first is ragged and haltered, as if I frightened him, but he starts to relax and now I can feel his hands on my waist. I've never felt this right before - it's as if everything I've ever done before this was a lie, and this is the first time I've ever been truthful to myself. I can taste my own tears as they continue to stream down my face but I'm not crying out of frustration anymore, but of remorse that I hadn't discovered this feeling until now. All those sappy love songs on the radio, and all those romance books I've read over the years finally start to make sense. They're not just mindless drivvle anymore, but genuine accounts of... this. This wonderful feeling. This glorious, real, wonder-

"Pierre! What in the name of God!?"

I hear whoever it is, but I'm reluctant to let this emotion go. I slowly pull away, looking up into Shea's black eyes - you know, I've always thought of his eyes as sharp and cunning, but now they seem soft. That aside, I look to my right, my hands sliding down from his neck, along his arms and eventually finding his hands and holding them gently. My heart freezes over and I can feel bile rising up in my throat as I - almost literally - see my life flash before my eyes.

"He - hello, F-Father..."

And yes, there they stand side-by-side, Mother with her long, seductively-curled strawberry-blonde hair and Father... just Father. The same purple eyes and blonde hair as his son, only blessed with the masculine physique of his sex.

For a while, they say nothing. They stand there staring at me, tears beginning to form around Mother's eyes as she visibly chokes back sobs. Father is shaking, his eyes glimmering and staring directly at me, then shifting towards my new-found lover. As his eyes rest on Shea they attain a furious quality, softening only when his gaze again is directed at me.

"Son... I thought we talked about this when you were a boy..." he says, simply and pointedly, as if he were reprimanding me. He is wearing that same stern, serious expression he always wore when catching me breaking the rules when I was a child."Now son, just get away from him and we'll forget this ever happened... okay?" he says softly, and as I make eye contact with him, I see that he's not mad; he looks hurt, and disappointed. Not in me, but in himself. I can tell by the way he is standing, arms crossed, frowning but his eyes aren't narrowed. The way he always has looked after doing something he was ashamed of. Shea's grip on my hands tightens, and I start to notice how intently he is glaring at Father, looking him directly in the eye, challenging him. Father walks over to Shea and I and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Come on son, let's go inside, we'll get through this -"

It's as if a wall has broken within me; a wall of oppression and fear that kept me in my place all these years, scaring me out of disobeying him. A wall that I always hid behind, trying to keep myself from having to face my true self. It was that place I always went to inside my head when I didn't want to face something, the home of my inner consciousness, but it's prison as well. I jerk my shoulder away violently, my eyes narrowed and lips forming a scowl. "No!" I yell at him, and take a few steps back, my right hand still grasping Shea's left. "No, I'm tired of you doing this! You don't want to accept that any son of yours could be anything other than what you expected, and you keep acting like its some kind of medical condition, something that I can just ignore!" He takes a few feeble steps back, eyes wide and staring at me. "Do you have any idea how much happier my childhood would have been if you would have just let me be myself? Do you? Do you?

"My entire life I've known this but I kept repressing it, kept telling myself that it'll be gone someday and I'll be just like you, dad, just like you, but I know I was lying to myself, and I knew then, too, but just couldn't let it be! If you don't want me as a son, then fine, it's not like I'm your only child. Go fawn over William, perfect, successful, straight William, why don't you? Just leave me the hell alone!"

Did I really just say that, or was it a dream? It didn't feel real; it felt totally alien and weird, like I was daydreaming about it but thinking of something else at the same time. But I know it's real, because I can feel the warmth of Shea's hand in mine, and I can feel the sweat beading my forehead in spite of the cold. The cold... I just now start to realize how cold it is. Guess I was so wrapped up in the moment that I didn't notice it. My bare feet are bright red and stiff; I can't seem to move them, and some of the sweat around my face has frozen to my hair, forming tiny little disgusting sweat crystals. And then, all of a sudden, it's all black.

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I wake up and I'm in my bed, but the sheets and blanket are clean and orderly, unlike how I left them. My head is throbbing and I feel nauseous and light-headed. A quick glance around the room reveals that someone had picked up all the stray pieces of clothing and garbage, and even bothered to take out the trash. The smell of fried fish wafts my way, and I inhale deeply - I smell salt, butter, and fish but nothing else. Whoever is cooking it doesn't know much about what they are doing, apparently. A look towards the kitchen verifies my conclusion, being I see cooking utensils and ingredients scattered all over the place, and a very distressed-looking Shea sweating over the stove top. I look to see that he's not even using a skillet, but cooking it directly on the stove. Despite my aching head I can't help but utter a quiet laugh, and he looks back at me, his face breaking into a wide grin. "Pie-er awake!" he says gleefully.

I choose to ignore his horrid mispronunciation of my name for now and grin back at him weakly. He quickly grabs a plate and picks the fish up with his bare hands, hissing in pain but not letting go until it was safely on the dish and starts walking over to me, head held high. I get into a sitting position, my back against the headboard, and he places the plate delicately on my lap. The fish is scorched on the bottom and I can already tell that he used too much salt, but I choose not to ruin the moment by criticizing it. He sits down next to me and looks at the fish, then me. "Pie-er try Shea fish? First time Shea cook!"

Using my fingers I tear off a piece and put it in my mouth. It's not bad, but not good either. But the fact that he made it for me somehow makes it taste so much better than anything I've ever eaten before. "I love it," I say, and look up at him. He looks so proud, like a little kid after having his picture pinned up on the fridge.

"Sorry call you Wonka before, Shea know now you Pie-er-"

"You know what, just call me Wonka when we're alone. It'll be our little secret." I say. It makes me cringe whenever someone mispronounces my name, but I don't want to hurt his feelings.

His eyes light up. "Really? Shea get pet name too?"

How he knows what a 'pet name' is, I'll never know. "Umm..." I try to think.

"Savage?"

"Wh-what?"

"Shea hear you call him Savage before, but Shea know you not mean it."

"Uh, sure."

His smile seems to light up the whole room, and I couldn't look away from him if I wanted to.

"What happen?" I ask finally.

"Wonka faint, fall over. Shea sorry not catch you, hit your head. Wonka parents very mad, but Shea make them leave." he says, and looks embarrassed after mentioning how he failed to catch me.

I smile an nuzzle his collar bone. "It's okay."

We sit like that for a long time. It could be minutes, hours, I don't care, but it's bliss. I feel like I truly belong right there next to him, feeling every breath that he takes, the soothing rise and fall of his chest. After a while, he says, "So, Pie-er and Shea mates now?" I open my eyes and shift closer to him, my face half-buried in his neck. I don't feel the pain anymore.

"Yeah. I guess we are."

"That mean..." Shea starts to ask. "that mean Shea and Pie-er..." I can tell what he's getting at. "Sorry, Shea nervous..."

He's nervous? Hell, my face is turning bright red and it feels like i'm about to faint again. "Eh..." I can't bring myself to look up at him. Sure, I know that I'm well past due to lose it, but let's be frank - I'm scared. Really, really scared. Will it hurt? Will it hurt bad? I know it does for girls, but what about guys? Then again, if I'm afraid of being hurt, I might as well not have anything to do with relationships for the rest of my life. I know how this is supposed to work, its not like I've never watched TV before, but... I'm totally clueless. Well, I guess that today is a good as any day. I take a deep breath. "Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Yeah..."

For a minute he does nothing, and then he runs a hand through my hair. I close my eyes, relishing the feel and he pulls away briefly before swinging one leg over my body so that he's straddling my waist. Slowly, he slides off his boots and gloves and gently drops them over the side of the bed. He does nothing for another moment, then asks, "Wonka really sure?" I nod, and close my eyes as he undoes the belt of my bathrobe. I shift upwards a bit so that he can pull it off for me and it joins his boots and gloves on the floor. I feel so exposed and vulnerable, laying under him in only my underwear. I feel tense and awkward, and I begin to realize just how big this moment really this. It isn't just something you do just like that, like most people make it out to be, like I used to think it was. He slides his kilt thing down (I never learned the proper term for it, but I feel that 'kilt' is more accurate than 'skirt' in this matter, at least) and I inhale sharply. Myself being naturally fine-haired, even 'down there', I can't help but feel intimidated by it.

You know, I just now realized how ugly the penis is; long and stiff when excited, with its pink, purple or brown tip that rarely matches the shaft, and all those veins... and hair... I shudder and he stops, looking at me with concern before I nod again and he continues to take off my boxers. My own looks pitiful in comparison, not being any smaller in size but my fair hair making it seem as such. He begins to position himself and I start to feel that familiar sensation; that tingling, burning sensation that just feels so good, but never fails to hurt and throb when its needs are not met. I guess I must have closed my eyes and moaned, because now I feel Shea's lips on mine, so soft and inviting, filling me with the intense urge to buck my hips, which I resist but do so painfully. He feels my tension and pulls his lips away, whispering in my ear, "Okay? Ready?" Again, I nod, this time biting my lip. I can feel his tip just barely touching me, and I just want it so bad. There is a moment where we both brace ourselves, and he then he speaks, "Not work. Get on belly." Indeed, he couldn't seem to position himself low enough, so I rolled over onto my belly and felt him shifting around some more. He takes a deep breath, and finally makes an attempt at shoving into me.

"Jesus fucking christ, son of a bitch!" I scream. It feels like someone is trying to rip me in half, and I bite the pillow in pain, tears immediately proceeding to stream down my face. And then I find out that he didn't even get the head all the way in. I look to my side and see Shea, sitting down, holding himself and biting his free arm, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. I pant some more. "Oh my god... are you okay?"

"Shea... not get... even tip in... hurt..." he manages to gasp out.

"I guess we'll have to practice before actually doing it..." I say, and think about it. Call me crazy, but just maybe we might have to actually get my ass used to it using, oh, I dunno, something considerably smaller than Shea's member? I have no idea why I didn't think about it before.

Shea notices the tears on my face and pulls me up into a sitting position, and embraces me. "Shea sorry, not know it hurt that much..." I can't help but laugh, and explain to him what I was thinking just a few seconds ago. He agrees, but without the smile. In fact, he looks sort of confused. "Practice with what?" I shrug, and tell him that we don't have to today. He nods, and I look up at him. I can tell by the way he's fidgeting that he is desperately wanting to do something with his erection, and that the burning is starting to hurt him.

"Are you okay?" I ask. He nods, but I can tell that he is lying. I think for a while, and then say, "Are you sure you don't want me to make it better?"

His eyes widen. "N-no, don't have to..."

"It's all right." He takes a deep breath, and shifts his thighs. I take this as my signal and guide him to the edge of the bed, where he sits, legs over the side, and I get down on my knees on the floor in front of him.

"What doing?" he asks, curious. He really has no idea. I get a sick feeling in my stomach (why am i doing this oh why oh why this is so nasty), but, regardless, I put my hands on his thighs and bend forward, taking a bit of it in my mouth. I hear him inhale sharply, and his thighs twitch under my hands. It doesn't taste near as bad as I thought it would, so I move my head down a little, the head hitting my uvula and causing me to gag. Apparently he doesn't notice. I repeat this, this time making sure the shaft comes in low, thus avoiding making me gag. After a few more times I start trying to fit more and more into my mouth, and before long I gag again, and this time almost throw up all over him. "Okay?" he asks through pants. Instead of answering I just continue. Before long his thighs start to shake and his breaths become labored and uneven. He surprises me by putting a hand on the back of my head and forcing it to go faster. I keep trying to tell myself, 'don't gag, don't gag,'.

I don't guess I expected his climax to be so subtle. I mean, I felt something going through him, but I didn't feel a big explosion in my mouth or anything, like I had expected. It was more of a tiny spurt, followed by a few more and then he exhaled, his entire body briefly shaking.

Another thing I didn't expect: It tasted sweet. Kind of like pineapple. I pull a trashcan towards myself and proceed to throw up, expelling all of his fluids (along with everything else I've eaten today). I wipe my mouth and see that Shea had lay down, still breathing heavily with a smile upon his face. I crawl into bed with him and pull the covers over the both of us. I turn around, and he wraps his arms around my waist. I feel so warm and protected; like nothing in the world could possibly take this feeling away. The only thing that is not perfect about this moment is my still-throbbing erection, which I'm trying to ignore. Shea's right hand runs down my belly and touches it, causing me to make a startled hissing through my teeth. He doesn't even have to pump; I climax right then and there, arching my back like a cat and choking back a pleasured scream. I know that I just came all over my bed, but that can wait till tomorrow. I don't care what time it is, or what I'm supposed to be doing right now. All I want to do is lay here with Shea, and be happy.

Deep down, I still feel angry and depressed, pissed at myself, my father, my mother - everyone. I'm still to totally wrap my mind around this, and my views on Heaven and Hell and God and Angels are all getting skewered now.

I think I know I'm going to Hell for this. But I think I know that I don't give a shit right now. These thoughts can wait till tomorrow.

The biting demon within me can wait till tomorrow to take over my soul again. Tonight, I want to be happy.

And I am.


Fun Fact: Yes, semen can taste like pineapple :D You just have to eat a lot of it!

Fun Fact: Yep, it is really rare for the anus to be able to handle a fully erect penis without severe pain and bleeding... UNLESS, they 'practice' beforehand. Trust me.

'My fun facts sure are pleasant, no? Anyway, I should really have been finishing my report in the time it took to write this, but what the hell, you only live once. The last chapter is gonna be shorter, most likely, because I'm busy working on the first chapter of my Carter origin story. Yes, the archaeologist. No, I don't have a thing for older gentlemen... *looks around nervously* Okay, let's just forget I said that and carry on.'

~Tobi