Summary:
Nobody showed up last weekend so Scout figured, no big whoop. He'll just throw his birthday party again and invite the only guy who'll come along.
Student/Teacher AU where Scout has Spy emotionally trapped.
Notes:
This is a high school AU based on Spy being Scout's teacher in Expiration Date, as well as Scout's "brief stint in high school" when "he was 23-years-old and also not enrolled in the school" in the Track Terrorizer flavor text. Only instead of trying to pick up girls, he accidentally picked up a Spy via a shitty blackmail attempt. Scout's name in this story is Ollie, and Spy's name is Basile. I highly suggest that you read Marty's version of the blackmail event! Marty also helped edit this story.
Spy's is not Scout's father in this story, because I've been in this fandom for a decade and I prefer their pre-retcon relationship. This is a BLU Spy and an unrelated RED Scout. There is no incest. But plenty of other extremely unhealthy sexual dynamics.
I hope that if you like the Scout and Spy pairing, with all its flaws and lil peeps of mutual care, you'll enjoy this story :)
Chapter 1: Olive and Basile Pizza
Chapter Summary
Scout wants pizza.
Chapter Notes
N/A
They spent Ollie’s birthday together. Not that Basile intended to, but Ollie wanted to go somewhere after he was done fucking his teacher into the school desk that day. How could a man say no to someone who could ruin his life, by simply pulling up his pornographic acting history on his phone?
So, Basile drove them to Chuck E. Cheese’s (Ollie’s choice, birthday boy!) in his little red convertible. It was a car which one could not afford with a teacher’s salary alone, and a car Basile definitely should not have driven in the South Boston projects where he worked.
A pimply-faced worker squinted at the pair as they entered the pizza establishment. It was late in the evening, dead silent save for the occasional chirp of an arcade machine. The screaming children that usually populated the pizzeria had emptied out along with their parents. There was something odd about a young man walking in, Adidas sweatpants sagging to the floor, with a much more wrinkled and visibly tired man in tow. Ollie slapped his hand on the front desk. He declared that it was his 13th birthday, and that he and his friend would very much like to take advantage of the birthday deal to get some fuckin’ pizza and chicken wings before the joint closed down. The worker rolled his eyes and said, “whatever” before ushering them to their dining table.
It wasn’t long until the same worker, now dressed in a rat costume, slouched towards their table with their food and two party hats. Ollie immediately tied one to his head. The worker drearily kicked his legs and clapped as a tinny birthday song played over the ceiling speakers, and the animatronic animal band next to them opened their eyes and shuddered to life. In the last fifty-something years of his life, Basile thought he had seen everything he could in this world. But this birthday ritual was dark and alien to him. The flashing strobe lights couldn’t hide the automatrons’ seizing, unnatural movements, nor their exposed metal skeletons jutting out from their shrunken, peeling skin. The chicken mascot was missing an eye. The yokel hound’s jaw hung slack as it mimed the movement of guitar strumming. And the fur on the rat was matted and browned with mysterious filth, no doubt from hordes of children molesting their robotic icon in celebration.
Basile briefly pondered whether having a man in a rat costume as well as a robotic rat would confuse children over which rodent was the real Charles E. Cheese. Then he glanced over at his student. Despite the abject mediocrity of their surroundings, Ollie was absolutely entranced and enthralled by the song and dance.
And as soon as the song was done, the rat-costumed worker quickly shuffled into the backroom. Ollie snapped back to attention and excitedly grabbed a handful of barbequed chicken. He blabbed about how that was so awesome, his mom used to take him here for his older brothers’ birthdays, and it was so totally wicked sick to go out for a birthday party instead of just getting high alone in his room, eating frozen pizza and watching lesbian trib porn like he had planned to do. All Basile could do was hold his head in his hands, and stare at Ollie’s flapping mouth dribbling half-chewed food.
There wasn’t much to say to the boy. Even without the blackmail threat looming over him, Basile and Ollie had nothing in common. The boy sold marijuana, and occasionally dropped into Basile’s French class to watch videos on his phone and fall asleep. He was a nuisance to simply chase off before, and now he was an active menace. Basile no longer smugly called on Ollie to out him for falling asleep or not paying attention during class. Hell, the kid actually raised his hand now and yelled “Aw yeah, I GOT DIS!” on questions he very much did not get. Coupled with the boy’s now completely jolly and attentive demeanor, it felt like public intimidation in order to assert his private relationship with his teacher. And their relationship was very simple at this point. Ollie wanted sex from Basile, and Basile obliged.
“Yo, Mistah Ess, when’s your birthday?”
Basile shook himself out of his thoughts to meet Ollie’s expectant stare. A string of cheese hung down from the boy’s mouth. Monsieur Scylla was the current name Basile went by, one of many, but the boy insisted on calling him Mister Ess. in that bawdy accent.
Ollie often asked the older man questions as they cleaned up after sex. Basile never answered. The boy didn’t need any more blackmail fodder than he already had dug up on his phone. Shit, the internet was a mystery to Scylla. Could the kid uncover more of his past with a simple Google search? Things he had spent decades covering up? Unravel the delicate fabrication that formed the framework of his current perfectly mundane life? Well, if Basile didn’t answer, Ollie always went on to idly chatter about something else. The boy’s poor attention span was predictable.
But the silence persisted. And those eyes kept staring, big and brown and unblinking, like a newborn kitten that couldn’t quite get the hang of looking straight ahead.
Basile exhaled, and replied carefully.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Aw sweet, y’said somethin’! And defensive too, huh?” Ollie grinned and placed a slice of pizza on Basile’s plate. “I bet it’s ‘cause you’re like, a freaking dinosaur! You was prolly alive when that Napoleon guy was still riding around on his gay lil’ horse. Yeah, that’s right, I know ‘bout Napoleons and shit. I been payin’ attention!”
The boy grabbed another slice of pizza, and pointed at the trail of cheese melting off the slice. “Check this shit. It’s fuckin’ frommage! Learned that from your class, man.” He tapped his own head as he beamed widely. “I ain’t just watchin’ cartoons the whole time in class y’know! And, and--” Ollie gesticulated wildly with one hand at the sagging pizza he was holding. “There’s olives! That’s French, right? And uhh. I dunno how to say this in frog, uh… basils! On this here thing. Y’know, kinda like our names!”
Basile sat stone-faced as Ollie grinned at him proudly. After a few moments of no reaction, the boy deflated and picked up Basile’s slice from his plate.
“Hey, you gonna eat this?”
Ollie slapped their pizzas together with a resounding thwack, and scarfed down the makeshift sandwich. He sucked the grease and cheese off his fingers sloppily. Basile winced as he remembered the earlier events of the day. Ollie had Basile manually finish him off after the usual ass-ramming. Once the deed was done, the boy shoved Basile’s fingers in his mouth and sucked his own semen off. Tongue tracing down his fingertips, lapping his palm, smiling, buck-toothed grin, slinking up, drooling down, dripping cum off his tongue and into Scylla’s ready and open mouth.
Basile’s stomach turned as he recalled the sensations. His hands were sensitive, he wore gloves whenever he could. Remembering the tongue on his hand drove him mad. It had felt good.
Smacking his lips and wiping his face on his hoodie sleeve, Ollie sat up and looked down at Basile. “Anyways, just wanted to ask ya birthday, y’know? In case you wanna do somethin’ together. Like we’re doin’ right now! I mean you came to my birthday, that means I gotta go to yours, dummy! Even though you didn’t get me a present or nothin’. Hehe.”
Basile retrieved his wallet from the back of his pants to pull out some bills. Ollie’s mouth opened slightly, and he shook his head.
“Yo, not like that man. I got dis.” The boy reached down into his sagging pants and shoved his arm up to the elbow into the pocket. It took a second for him to sort through god knows what else he kept in there, but he finally fished out his own wallet. Basile observed that the fabric was full of holes and fuzzy, possibly from getting thrown in the dryer too many times, as well as patterned with the Red Sox logo. It was also fat with dollar bills.
Ollie slapped a crumpled, dirty twenty onto the table. He winked and elbowed his teacher lightly. “I ain’t a kid, you know. You ain’t the only one with a job, Mistah Ess! ‘Sides, I didn’t even tell you today was my birthday til I was halfway sliding my dick outta yer ass after school. It’s aight. You can do me somethin’ else.”
As much as Basile detested it, he had been waiting for this something else all night.
End Notes
N/AChapter 2: Birthday Cake
Chapter Summary
Scout n' Spy hang out in a motel room for a birthday after-party. They have sex. Spy has trouble sleeping.
Chapter Notes
Wowee, this has taken a while to edit down!
Content warnings: Unenthusiastic consent, Descriptions of violence/murder.
This chapter is 80% Spy thinkin' while doing nothing in particular, and 20% bad sex. Enjoy!
They pulled into a cheap motel together, in the older man’s little red Corvette. The front desk clerk gave Basile the most malodorous of stink eyes as he checked in for their room keys. Perhaps it was the gaudy car, or the three-piece navy pinstripe suit. Maybe it was Ollie claiming that him and his grandpa needed a room to share ice cream and hookers. But the judgement of a night shift worker was the least of Basile’s concerns as his younger companion tugged him by the tie up to their room. Besides, what’s the big D, Mistah Ess? They were just two dudes hangin’ out in the middle of the night, just like real bros do!
Ollie kicked open the door to their room. He threw his messenger bag on the bed, flopped onto the mattress bellyfirst, and kicked his sneakers off against the back wall with a thwack.
Basile trudged behind him. He quietly shut and locked the door behind them.
Save for the glow from Ollie’s phone, the room was pitch black. The young man tapped away on his cellular device, blue light illuminating his face, while he yammered about how sleepovers were awesome (even though his ma never let him have any sleepovers when he was a kid), and how's about next time let's go over to your place Mistah Ess (even though it probably smelled like cheese and frog and bread, and, and, other stinky French things).
Basile situated himself in the dark behind his blabbering student. He began undressing.
Every evening after work, he mechanically executed an exact order of tasks. Tonight at this motel would be no different.
Cigarette and lighter retrieved from coat pocket, coat carefully placed on the back of a chair with his tie draped on top.
Gun harness unstrapped, knife holster taken off his calf, both placed neatly on the end table.
Glasses off and gloves off.
And finally, cigarette lit.
He took a deep drag from the slim brown tube, and sat on the bed next to his blabbering pupil. Tuning Ollie’s speech out, he closed his eyes.
For the last six years, he had been situated in Boston as a school teacher. It wasn’t his first choice of occupation, but his agency had securely provided it to him. After the life he’d led as a hired gunman, posing as a teacher was pure tedium. But he was old and tired now. Teaching high school level French was simple enough.
His routine was straightforward. He’d go to work, stand in front of a chalkboard, gesticulate at disinterested children, grade their assignments, and go home. He might decide between frozen food or takeout for dinner. Perhaps he’d end his day watching a television drama, rather than re-reading an old book in silence. Maybe on the weekend he'd romantically stare out the window into the gray city, with a cigarette dispassionately dangling from his skeletal fingers. Inevitably, the night would end with him falling asleep by himself, drunk on boxed red wine.
This life was a far cry from his gun-slinging, womanizing, cock-sucking past. In the last three years, he hadn’t even bothered to find someone to fuck him. He detested everyone in this town, from his co-workers to himself. But this was the life he’d chosen. No danger, no mystery. His domestication was quiet, and it was safe.
Young Oliver’s after school sessions had proven quite disruptive to his routine.
The boy was no one special. They had hardly interacted before the consummation of their sexual relationship. The most Basile saw of Ollie was an occasional glimpse out of the corner of his eye, a red hoodie skulking by the school dumpster, possibly dealing drugs, and always skipping class. On the rare occasion Ollie would appear in class, it was only to doodle dicks on his desk and insult his peers. Basile would have pitied him and his obvious cries for attention. But their first one-on-one interaction had been Ollie cornering him in an empty classroom, and shoving that damned phone in his face. The cracked phone screen streamed fragmented grainy clips from Basile’s pornographic youth, and those were all he needed to see to acquiesce to the young man’s pleads. What pity had lain in his heart bled out into dull, thudding hatred.
Since then, Ollie attended class every day just to beg Basile for more sex. Basile always complied. The boy could already wreak havoc wielding pornography starring his teacher, but if anyone discovered they were currently engaged in sexual congress, it would absolutely end his life. Even if it was his student using and fucking him . He was trapped.
Basile opened his eyes and glanced at Ollie, who was still incessantly running his mouth while thumbing at his phone. The boy was probably playing some sort of electronic game. Oh, these millenials and their obsession with crushing candy. Their generation would go mad without their precious handheld devices. Basile stubbed out his cigarette on the side table, and immediately lit a new one. Tonight was the first time they had been together outside of school, with all the excitement that chaperoning a manchild entailed. God, he had basically been blackmailed into attending a child's birthday party. At this point he would rather be coerced into sex than continue babysitting pizza festivities.
Keeping his cigarette held between his lips, Basile retrieved his knife from the holster and unfolded the handles. Perhaps a revolver and balisong were too much for an academic to carry to work, even for the average violence level of a public American high school. But they were necessary tools for his past life as an enforcer. They also proved useful during particularly masochistic coitus, and came in handy when he made a grand post-coital escape. Having these relics on his person at his current age was more for comfort and force of habit. Basile ran his thumb against the dull blade of his knife. It hadn't been sharpened in years. God, how long had it been since he had sex with someone who wasn't an overgrown delinquent?
He idly performed a few tricks with the knife while staring at Ollie’s lumpy silhouette on the bed. No matter the temperature, the boy insisted on wearing layers of massively oversized outerwear day in and out. Years before he had even learned the young man’s name, Basile recalled seeing Ollie’s mother pulling her son by the ear out of the principal’s office, wearing that same red hoodie. By now he was definitely too old to still be in high school, Basile mused as he idly traced Ollie's shape with his knife. Was he still enrolled in school after flunking one too many grades? Or was he simply loitering on school property to hawk illicit substances and flirt with single mothers during PTA nights?
Questions, all these questions about this boy. Basile shuttered these speculations away. None of these questions were important. Ollie wasn't important. There was nothing about him that demanded scrutiny. He was simply an idiot. An idiot who happened to have Basile submitting to his every whim and demand.
Ollie glanced up from his phone at Basile. He sat up on the edge of the bed next to Basile and set his phone down. “Man, my ma ain't answering her texts. Dunno where she is, hope she's awright. I texted her that I'd be out all night with my girlfriend, so our sleepover should be fine." Ollie turned to run his hands around the sheets, searching for something. "We should order one o’ them pornos from the tv. Y’know, like they do in movies when dudes gotta stay the night in a janky motel cuz they’re undercover cops or somethin’? That's what guys do together, right? Ooh, found it.”
With a click of the remote, the motel television illuminated the room with cold blue light. Ollie flopped back down to his former position, and flipped through the menu. “Let’s see… we got ‘Squart Machine Girls’, ‘BBW Barbeque'”...
Basile stifled a snort. He sheathed his knife and began unbuttoning his vest to remove his shirt. The boy had trouble reading anything in class, whether it was French or English. But he certainly didn't have any problems going through the Brazzers catalogue.
And why was he wasting his time going through pornography? He had a man entrapped for sexual congress right here in front of him.
“Hey, ‘Asian MILF’s First Anal Adventure 3’ is only $6.99! Says they’re ‘30 and dirty’... only 30 years old?? I don’t think that counts as a MILF, whaddya think? Unless they had kids real young like my m-- ”
Ollie turned his head and met Basile’s gaze.
Basile froze in the middle of undoing his belt.
All that could be heard in the room was the high-pitched frequency of the television.
The thought of slitting the boy’s throat and letting him bleed out on the motel bed flickered through Basile’s mind. No one would miss him.
Their standoff broke with a blink from Ollie.
“Huh. I ain’t even picked out a movie yet!” Ollie rolled over on his back and stared upside-down at Basile, tilting his head. “Yo Mistah Ess, y’don’t wanna just, uh, chill or somethin’?”
Basile removed his belt and placed it next to his gun and knife. “I’d prefer to get this night over with.”
“Oh. Can y’keep your sock holdin’ thingies on? I like when you keep those on ya, y'look like one o’ them smart professors from the movies, where people go to fancy colleges and learn lots of stuff.”
Yawning, Basile pulled his pants off and watched as Ollie reached for his bag. The boy dug until he pulled out a black pile of something that just barely shone in the dull television light. He crawled back on the bed towards Basile. Basile narrowed his eyes, looking down at what the boy’s open hands presented.
“Also! Uh. Can y’wear these while we do it? It’s my birthday y’know. I wanna do you like in your movies.”
It was a black ski mask and matching dog collar. An approximation of what Basile wore in his videos. Cheaper. Cloth and pleather. Not the zippered latex hood he once wore, and not a proper leather bondage collar meant for a human neck. The boy must have procured them from a local dollar store. A noble effort.
Staring directly into the boy’s eyes, Basile slinked towards Ollie and pressed their hands together.
“I’m in no position to say no.”
Ollie chewed on his thumb and stared down at their hands. Their fingers touched through the woolen fabric of the ski mask.
Basile smiled wryly.
“Do you know how I came to star in those videos?”
Ollie’s dour expression immediately brightened into a buck toothed grin. “Uhhhh, cuz you’re a hot slut who loves t’fuck and show off?”
Basile said nothing. He took the mask and collar from Ollie, and slipped the cloth on. He closed the collar on top of the mask just tight enough to put continuous pressure on his throat. The mask’s eye holes provided only a tightly claustrophobic field of vision, but Ollie’s white-knuckled grip on the sheets was plain to see. The boy’s slack-jawed expression held all the subtlety of a hooting gorilla, and his wide-eyed stare was devoid of everything but desire. Basile pulled on his leather driving gloves, and returned Ollie’s gaze as he squeezed his own hefty pectorals and pushed them together. Upon seeing Basile touch himself, Ollie pulled his sweating body back tight, like a gun hammer ready to explode.
Reclining on the pillows with a breathy sigh, Basile arched his back ever so slightly, and stretched his wiry body up towards the headboard to accentuate his thin waist. He let Ollie soak in a full view of his nearly nude body.
Ollie was absolutely transfixed. This boy couldn’t resist him, no man or woman could. He was no different than so many lovers before. The masked man could not help but love feeling desired, and desiring in turn to be used as a sex doll.
What wonderfully familiar feelings to warm his night. Basile was young again.
He slowly spread his legs. “Do whatever you want to me. I am yours.”
Ollie’s pants and jacket flew into the air, and his erection sprung free. The little red thing poked out from underneath his long white shirt, standing hard and proud at three, maybe four inches.
“Man! I’m gonna pound ya til your tits gonna slap y’face!”
Ollie pounced on Basile and smashed their bodies together. The boy was diminutive in stature, a full head shorter than him with shoulders half as wide as his, but still forcefully strong with tightly packed muscle. He thrusted hard, bony hips stabbing into bony ass, forcing a pained moan from Basile. Clumsy hands groped his tits into soreness. An errant thumb brushed against Basile's nipple and elicited a whine and squirm out of him. His breath halted as Ollie’s mouth enveloped his nipple and sucked, a tongue ran against the barbell piercing, all while those calloused hands squeezed his chest and overstimulated him until it was unbearable. Basile panted and pushed the boy’s head closer, closer, into his chest, leather glove in fuzzy hair pulling tighter, tighter until --
The warm weight pushed off of Basile’s body. He opened his eyes blearily and saw Ollie sitting on him with a pink, sweaty face, fumbling with a condom wrapper. Ollie looked up.
“What? Internet says I gotta do the safe sex. Don’t wanna give you the herp or nothin’. Haha. Cuz I have a lot of sex with a lot of people.”
With silent irritation, Basile took the wrapper and peeled it open. Ollie snatched the opened wrapper back with a pout, and rolled the condom on his flagging erection.
“I can do shit myself, y’know.”
Basile rolled his eyes. “Use some spit, and get on with it.”
Ollie’s scowl flipped into a smirk. “Spit? Hey man, I been readin’ up on this stuff, and I ain’t no baby to givin’ anal pleasures by now. I got lube, and lots of it!”
Ollie pulled a bottle of lube out from his oversized shirt, in a manner that could only be described as “procurement”, and sloshed the contents out onto Basile and the bed. The cold liquid hit Basile’s crotch, sticking on his body hair, and eliciting a sharp inhale. What a mess, what a waste, what an idiot. Before Basile could hiss out an insult, Ollie followed through by yanking the older man’s ass back against his hips. The crest of his pelvis jabbed into Basile almost as hard as his erection. Ollie leaned over Basile, wiggling and humping excitedly against his body.
The boy lifted him up by the hips. Ollie’s dick slicked up and down against the cleft Basile’s crotch, as if meaning to penetrate the scarred line of tissue. Basile tilted his head back and closed his eyes, waiting to be taken.
“Too bad you ain't got nothin’ there, huh? No dick, no balls -- it don’t even grow hair no more. I wonder what it’d be like if y’had a pussy. Man, I’d impregnate you so damn hard you’d call outta work for the rest of your life!”
Basile gasped as Ollie pushed into his ass effortlessly with his small size and immediately went to pumping at that jackrabbit pace.
God, this was it. He sighed and clawed at the sheets, he wrapped his legs around Ollie to draw him in closer and take in every haphazard thrust. Every slam of Ollie’s hips against his body flushed him up to the cheeks with warmth, heat that caught under his mask and stung his eyes. He ran his gloved hands up Ollie’s back and stroked his hair.
Ollie’s arms held him tight. His hands groped his body, from his thighs to his hips and shoulders, so hard he knew they’d leave bruises. His dick wasn’t large enough -- or nearly experienced enough -- to bring him to orgasm, but this mosquito bite was the scratch for an itch that gnawed at him everyday. Basile bit his lip and let out a low moan. Orgasm be damned, just having something, someone, using him, fucking him, that’s all he needed.
Ollie nuzzled into the crook of Basile’s neck, and began his usual coital muttering. “Fuck man, you always making those sounds. All that whining. No way anyone sounds like that outside a porno.”
Leaning closer into Ollie’s ear, Basile moaned again, lower and more drawn out. His lips brushed against the boy’s smooth cheek, and Ollie reciprocated with haphazard dog-like panting. “Yeah-- yeah-- keep letting me know how much you like that."
Ollie grabbed Basile’s bony wrists and pulled them to his sides. Basile struggled lightly, without serious effort, testing the boy’s grasp. Ollie possessively pushed him further down into the mattress. There was absolutely no give. The boy was so much stronger than his thin limbs and small stature would suggest.
"You make way girlier sounds than any chick, man, anyone ever tell ya you sound way prettier than a girl?”
Ollie jerked Basile’s head up to his face with a grip on his collar. “Hey, you even listenin’ to me?”
Basile whimpered lightly. Drool trickled out of his mouth and soaked into the fabric of his mask.
Ollie chuckled in between heavy breaths. He released his grip and dropped Basile down onto the bed.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout! Little fuckin’ touch and you moan just like a goddamn porno girl! Just like the movies!”
Always such a handsy boy, he never seemed to think about what he was doing. He never seemed to tire of fucking, or bore of fucking, he was always dutifully fucking to his mercurial whims. Just like a little rabbit. Basile could always rely on the mindless rhythm of Ollie’s precious few inches to fill his senses with the dull noise of excitement in these moments they had together. The boy's enthusiasm was contagious. It was nearly enough to recapture the exhilaration from Basile’s former life, just enough to evoke faint memories of chasing skirts and covert seduction within risque business.
“Shit… I’m real glad I get to fuck you.”
Their precious few moments together never lasted too long. Mostly because Ollie never lasted too long. Ollie pressed his body tight against Basile’s and halted with a pathetic, high-pitched whine. Basile groaned as he felt Ollie’s dick slide out of his ass. Ollie crumpled on top of the larger man and breathed heavily into Basile’s neck.
They laid together in silence, stuck together by Ollie’s sweat-drenched shirt.
Ollie straightened up and threw the used condom off into the dark. Wherever it landed, it made a juicy wet smack.
Basile felt himself pulled up by the collar again. He looked up in a daze. Ollie’s eyes stared straight down back at him, focused with sharp intent.
“I’m still horny. Suck my dick.”
Cold air struck Basile’s face. With the mask yanked off, the room was so much larger, his thoughts were so much closer. Ollie thumbed at Basile’s cheek, tracing the protuberant bone with an uneasy tenderness. The boy’s calloused hand combed up into Basile’s disheveled hair, and his fingers curled around the gray ringlets.
“I wanna see your ugly mug lookin’ up at me when you suck me.”
Ollie’s hand tensed so sharply that tears welled up in Basile’s eyes. Ollie pushed Basile’s face down into his flaccid penis until he took it into his mouth. He ran his tongue against the limp length, feeling it twitch and swell in his mouth. Taking hold of the dick with a thumb and forefinger, he pushed back the foreskin and sucked slowly on the head. He glanced up at his student for his next instruction.
Ollie stared down at him with half-lidded eyes, buck teeth peering from between his parted lips. The fingers tightened in Basile’s curly hair. He whispered, “You look so fucking cute with my dick in your mouth.”
Ollie began thrusting slowly into his teacher’s mouth with his now fully erect length. Basile slacked his jaw a bit, letting the boy control their movements and push in and out of his lips however he pleased.
“I know I told you to put on the mask n’ junk, cuz man! Those videos of you from back then drive me goddamn crazy. But I like seeing your face. You’re gross, don’t get me wrong, but you look nice for a guy. You look all smart n shit, you always look so fucking hot, so fucking snooty in your gay ass suit n’ tie every day, always makin’ me so fucking horny. Gets me real hard during class, can’t do nothin’ bout it but just stare at you and think about you getting fucked in your movies, gettin’ fucked by me, and then class ends and I get to fuck you, and, and--”
Ollie's grip tightened painfully as his pace quickened. His inane muttering blurred together as Basile rode the thrusting in his mouth, mind filled with emptiness.
“I mean, didja do them movies for free just cuz you’re a fuckin’ slut?”
Ollie backed Basile up with his thrusts, knocking his head lightly against the headboard with every rough shove of his dick.
“Didja get lots of money cuz you’re a stuck up bitch?”
Basile grabbed onto Ollie's hips trying to find balance. His long nails dug into the boy’s tense asscheeks through the leather of his gloves. Ollie grabbed Basile’s head with both hands and he fucked his face. Loose tears rolled down Basile’s cheeks from how hard Ollie was gripping Basile's hair.
"God, and when y'start cryin', iunno why but it's so fuckin'-- I love it! Shit, man, you're all mine, right?!"
Basile nodded the best he could with a dick in his mouth, and he hummed a gargled "mmmhhm" between thrusts. Yes, yes, yes. Not forever, but for now. He could feel Ollie’s body tense, his movements reaching a fever peak. Basile’s hands squeezed Ollie's ass reassuringly. Ollie held onto his hair so tight, he could have ripped it out. Looking up, he could see the boy’s face was as red and shiny as a baboon’s ass.
Ollie whispered, "You’re all fuckin’ mine…”
Ollie shoved his dick as far as he could in Basile’s mouth and smothered him in his tuft of pubic hair. Basile closed his eyes and focused on the throbbing of Ollie’s dick in his mouth. Cum pulsed out with every twitch. The pulling pressure in Basile’s hair eased. Ollie’s thick, knobbed knuckles closed in around Basile’s slender fingers, and their hands intertwined. Gently, he squeezed his teacher’s hand and removed Basile’s grip from his hips.
Tears mixed in with drool and semen, and dripped down from the corners of Basile’s lips. Ollie pulled out of his mouth. He knelt down, level with Basile, and pushed their faces together. The youthful blush of Ollie’s mouth rubbed against Basile’s thin and cracked smoker’s lips. Ollie’s thumb stroked the older man’s beard stubble.
“I love you man. I love you forever. I love cumming inside you, you’re perfect, I’m-- I’m gonna--” Ollie’s tongue slipped into Basile’s mouth. Basile bit down hard, and shook Ollie off of him. Rising up from his position on the pillows, he looked down at Ollie and spat the semen in his mouth out on Ollie's face. How many times was the boy going to insist on kissing him?
The younger man wiped the semen off his face with his shirt sleeve. His knit brows revealed his hurt. That hurt quickly turned into eagerness as the older man wiped cum off his own lips with the back of his bony hand. Ollie grabbed Basile's hand and began lapping at it hungrily, fervently licking and swallowing his own cum.
Disgusting dog. He pushed Ollie off of him again. Undaunted, the boy eagerly climbed back onto his chest and stuck his pointed nose into Basile’s face.
“So, didja cum?! I was real good, right? I really am the best. Ain’t no one betta than me at makin’ --”
"Get me a cigarette, boy."
Basile undid the collar from his neck and placed it on the side table, while Ollie obediently hopped off the bed. He retrieved a cigarette box and lighter from Basile’s jacket on the chair and returned.
"Merci."
"Hehe."
Pleased with himself, Ollie plopped back onto the bed and laid his chin on Basile’s broad chest. Basile deftly flicked open the lighter and lit the cigarette. The younger man gawked with admiration as Basile’s lips wrapped around the cigarette.
"Man. That's hot."
Reaching up with a forefinger, through the thick forest of curly chest hair, Ollie wiped at an errant tear hanging from Basile’s lower eyelash. Basile turned his head away.
“Hey uh. You okay?”
“Crying on command is a useful skill. Don't you enjoy my tears during copulation?” Basile took a deep draw from his cigarette, and slowly blew down into Ollie’s face. Ollie’s eyes watered slightly as his face was smothered in smoke, and he withdrew his hand to cough into his arm.
“Oh. Yeah, I guess so. It gave me the good nut at the time, but now I kinda feel the bad nut. Y'know, like when you jack off to something y'know you ain't supposed to and right after you feel kinda weird.” Ollie frowned with furrowed brows. “Hey, y’know I don’t really mean none of, y’know, that stuff I say when we’re doin’ it, right?”
“Neither do I.”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad we could do that for my birthday. Never thought my teacher woulda given me such an awesome gift. Thanks, Mistah Ess.”
Mister Ess. Sickening. Basile shoved Ollie off of his chest and rolled to his side. The thrill he was seeking had been sought. There was now only thudding dullness once more. The boy held onto his arm and whined slightly. Without looking back, Basile shrugged him off and stood up. Smoke trailed behind him as he walked towards the bathroom. He felt filthy.
“Hey, where ya going?”
“Coitus is messy, especially thrice in one day.”
"Uhhh. So you gonna shower?
"Yes."
“Oh. You gonna smoke in the shower??”
“Yes.”
Basile closed the door on Ollie, leaving the boy pantless in the dark, alone with nothing but television static to keep him company.
The bathroom door opened, giving way to bellows of steam and gangrenous light. Basile walked out nude, condensed moisture still dripping from his hirsute body. He flicked the light off.
The blue glow of the television still whined at an unsettling frequency and illuminated Ollie’s body. He was sleeping face down on top of the blankets, with his gangly limbs sprawled across the bed taking up every inch of possible sleeping space. He was still pantless, with his shirt pulled up to expose his buttocks. The ski mask had apparently been retrieved from the motel carpet, and was now serving as a drool absorbing pad underneath his face. Next his head lay his beloved phone, screen still cracked, black with dormancy. The manchild appeared more child than man.
Seeing Ollie again renewed the queasiness within Basile. Crawling onto the bed, he rolled the boy's body over to reveal his blissfully drooling face. Basile straddled him and sat on his hips, looming over his face in observation.
Eyes still closed, the dreaming boy smacked his lips and smiled.
An image of the boy’s throat slashed open, his face wretched into a gurgling shriek melding with the deafening squeal of the television, crimson splattering onto his freckled cheeks and soaking outward into the sheets, flashed into his head again. A picturesque death. Worthy of a painting. Blame it on the violence typical of a so-called undesirable neighborhood, and there would be no further investigation.
No one would miss him.
No, too messy. Perhaps more suited for the theatrical assassinations he had performed in his youth, but getting blood on his suit jacket would be such a bother to dry clean.
Strangulation perhaps? Basile snaked his thin fingers around the boy's throat. He stroked the carotid artery with his thumb, feeling the steady pulse of pumping blood. A tingle of excitement grew in Basile’s gut. The boy would gasp as his vessels were gently compressed, perhaps he'd pathetically try to push Basile off with those baby kitten eyes wide open. Hands would tighten around his neck, their blood would pump together, leather against throbbing flesh, until the boy's thrashing grew weaker and their struggle ceased. He'd take the body with him into his car, ride off and --
Basile sighed. Removing his hands from Ollie's scrawny neck, he rubbed his temples. He’d have to leave his job and reconstruct his life again. The mere thought was tiring. And this attention to detail was much more than the boy deserved.
God, what a dreadful turn of events. He let Ollie use him for the last month precisely so he wouldn't have to think. But now he was thinking too much.
He stared down at the blissfully oblivious boy. Ollie’s flaccid penis stuck out from under his shirt like a circus peanut out of its package. He felt a tinge of sorrow for Ollie once more.
He took the remote that Ollie had been laying on, and turned the television off. The room was drowned in darkness. The frequency that had been constantly whining the entire night finally ceased into pitch black silence.
The blanket was being held hostage underneath Ollie’s body, and Basile yanked as much as he could of the fabric to cover himself with. He sunk into the bed, the area underneath him still warm from Ollie’s body having kept it toasty during his shower.
Basile rolled on his side, facing away from young Oliver. He shoved a pillow on his own face.
Sleep hadn't come easy to Basile for the last 50 years of his life. In the nightmarish morning hours when left alone in the wide expanse of idle night, his mind would constantly buzz through a thousand memories and thoughts: of what had been, what could have been, and what would be of everything and nothing.
Tonight he'd finally exhausted his brain. He was just tired.
So despite the weight behind Basile's body shifting, and despite the stringy arms wrapping around his torso, he drifted into unconsciousness with nary an errant thought save for wishing Ollie would just go to sleep and stop grabbing at his tit.
End Notes
The third chapter will probably take another couple of months to edit. I have the skeleton from last year, just gotta meatify the themes. I won't be surprised if it ends up taking til' 2020 to get posted!
Oh yeah, the third chapter will probably have no sex. So for those who thought this was gonna be a sexy story, you can see from this chapter it's not particularly erotic HAH. So you have that to look forward to!
Chapter 3: After Party
Chapter Summary
Walk of shame.
Chapter Notes
Almost a year since the last chapter... cool! My last week has been the perfect inspiration I needed to get this chapter's draft cleaned up and edited.
This chapter contains choking, coughing, and various other health things. Also a lot of talking as usual.
Floating in a dead sea, it kissed him and he held tight. It was soft and warm, it held him so powerfully in its arms, tongue against tongue, flesh on flesh as the wet kisses fluttered down his mouth, his torso, his arm and fingertips. Dizzying, a black mass coiled itself around his body to tug at his skin and dig its nails into his back and drag him into the sea. It ripped his spine and dug his meat and organs out until his body was empty, rotted into a skeleton sunk underneath the waves.
Basile opened his eyes . The room was still dark, with just the faintest sliver of light coming through the window blinds. He could feel a thin layer of crust covering his face, as well the bed shaking. One of his arms felt so heavy that he couldn’t move it. He flexed the hand on that arm, and his fingers dug into something squishy yet fuzzy. With his free hand, he traced the trail of crust from his cheek, down to his torso, and brushed against something warm and shivering. He glanced down.
A shaved koala had wrapped its body around Basile’s arm with both arms and legs. No, not a koala. It was young Oliver, pink and naked save for the dirty white socks on his feet. With his eyes shut tight, and brows furrowed in concentration, Ollie sucked on the soft flesh of Basile’s bicep intently. One of the boy’s calloused hands was kneading Basile’s right pectoral. His other hand was clasped on top of Basile’s hand, pushing his palm against his hard little prick while he humped away.
Basile could barely keep his eyes open to watch the boy fondle him, let alone be surprised. Evidently Ollie was having a wonderful time. Knowing him, he wouldn’t last much longer.
With a clench of the hand and a muffled mewl, Ollie produced a pathetic spurt of semen. The thin liquid ran down Basile’s palm and leaked between their fingers. The boy continued to grind against Basile at a slower pace, milking himself for all he had left in his drained little egg testicles.
“You’ve finished. Get off me, boy.”
There was no need to push him off. Ollie untangled himself from Basile’s arm, wiped his hand on his stomach, and backed off with a bright red face. He sat on the chair next to the head of the bed, and closed his legs to conceal his softening penis. Staring at Basile, Ollie bounced his legs nervously.
A suffocating fog of exhaustion fettered Basile’s waking efforts. There was no way he could have gotten more than 2 or 3 hours of rest. His ribs cracked, his joints popped, and with noncommittal effort, Basile pushed himself up against the bed’s headboard. He squinted at Ollie through heavy eyelids. He wiped the mess dripping from his hand on Ollie’s still-jiggling thigh, then reached around in the dark for his cigarettes.
A knobby hand appeared from the darkness and offered him one. Basile looked up to see Ollie had already found the cigarette pack, and had his lighter ready in his other hand.
Snatching the cigarette, Basile placed it in his mouth. The boy rolled his thumb across the sparkwheel a couple times before the flame finally ignited. So clumsy, so inefficient. But still, he leaned in to let Ollie light his cigarette. With a few puffs, the fag was lit. Basile took a deep drag, and leaned back. He let smoke hiss out from between his lips. At least this would keep him awake. With his cloak of fumes concealing him once more, he eyed Ollie’s body.
He’d never seen Ollie without at least a baggy shirt on. Now he could plainly see every scrawny muscle on his body, his shoulder blades protruding sharply from his back, and his visible spine nearly piercing through his flesh as he hunched on the chair. The only part of his body with any solid substance was his ribcage, expanding and contracting as the boy took ragged breaths, trailing down into a concave stomach. His hip bones jutted out like knives, his knees were knobby and scraped, and, worst of all, his calf-length gym socks were thoroughly stained a grayish-brown from walking on the filthy motel carpet.
Just the night before, this was the man who pushed him down into the sheets and left him sobbing. He was so small and thin now. He looked like nothing more than a neglected child.
And the child spoke. “Why d’ya let me do this to you?”
Those words dragged Basile out from his anatomical inspection, into a light-headed daze. He had been holding his breath during his examination of young Oliver’s body, and neglected the cigarette dangling from his fingers. He exhaled, and took another drag.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Ollie coughed into his fist, and rubbed his nose. “I mean. Y’know. You’re a good looking guy. You’re all classy n’ shit You could get any girl -- or uh, guy -- you want. Why’re you with me?”
Basile remained stone-faced. Instead of saying that he was desperately lonely, and painfully tired of living, and the only excitement he’d had in years had been these unscrupulous trysts to let Ollie throw him around like a toy, he fired back a retort.
“Did you forget that you forced me into this?”
Still bouncing his legs, Ollie bit his fingernails and stared at the floor. “The, uh, blackmailing stuff, huh? Yeah, that kinda sucks. Listen, hey, I didn’t think it’d actually work, y’know? I-I uh, I thought I’d just throw that out there, it wasn’t serious, you always see that kinda stuff in movies, and I didn’t think you’d actually-- I wouldn’t actually tell anyone, what would I do, run up to the principal and say I was jackin’ off to some guy whose face you can’t even see? Man, it’s a whole lot of bullshit!” He glanced back at Basile. “But you know that, right? Y'know you could leave anytime you want?”
A sharp cringe crawled up Basile’s spine as Ollie clasped their hands together and crawled back onto the bed. He situated his buttocks on Basile’s pubic bone, soft flesh against scarred tissue. With both hands, Ollie gently brought Basile’s hand up against his jaw.
His coarse, wrinkled fingers brushed against Ollie’s face. Save for peach fuzz and the few hairs on his upper lip that formed a pathetic dirt moustache, Ollie was completely smooth with nary a hair on his chin. Ollie closed his eyes, breath shaking, and brought Basile’s hand up to his cheeks. He nuzzled into Basile’s hand and rubbed his lips against the knuckles. Flushed pink skin, glowing with warmth, contrasted sharply with Basile’s rancid graying meat. The freckles dusted on Ollie’s cheeks met with the age spots dotting the older man’s hands. Basile choked back a retch.
Their hands trailed down together, until Basile’s fingers were wrapped around Ollie’s scrawny chicken neck. Ollie pushed Basile’s hand into his throat and wheezed.
“You could kill me anytime you want. I wouldn’t really mind.”
The pulse of Ollie’s throat thumped in Basile’s hands.
“You ain’t really who you says you is. Some old guy strapped up with guns n’ shit at a school, and a porn star? You don’t really belong here, you got too much goin’ on, who are ya?”
Basile put his cigarette down in the ashtray. He clenched lightly on Ollie’s throat, and felt the hand grasping his own tighten as well. He wrapped his other hand around the boy’s soft throat and carefully pushed Ollie onto his back, reversing their positions. On top of Ollie now, he applied gradual pressure to his neck. Ollie’s breathing became more uneven, his eyes rolled back, his pulse beat harder in Basile’s palms. Those clumsy fingers were still pushing Basile’s hands into his throat, but their grasp weakened with every passing second. His mouth opened and closed like a stranded minnow, gasping for air in a hawk’s talons.
Razor-focused on faltering breath and rising heartbeat, he leaned closer to Ollie’s face. He stared into the whites of those unfocused eyes and felt short gasps of air push against his grip, throbbing flesh between his fingers, hot breathy pants against his face, tighter, tighter, color and life fading from that far-away kitten stare. This is what the boy wanted. And he’d do what the boy wanted, even if it killed the little worm.
A hot squirt hit the inside of Basile’s thighs. It dribbled down between his legs. He released his grasp and looked down, scowling.
“This is what gets you off?”
Ollie’s dick was unfortunately hard again, and leaking against his stomach. He gasped for air, coughing with every inhale, and reached up at Basile’s face. Choking on his own words, he moaned lightly.
“Sorry-- I didn’t-” He coughed. “Aw jeez-- I gotta be, I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
That familiar ball of disgust rose up his throat once more. Basile wanted to vomit, and not just at the manchild hyperventilating in post-climatic bliss. No cruelty could push young Oliver away. He would always follow behind, lapping at his heels, even as he was led to a slaughterhouse. Subtlety wasn’t an option, passive aggression flew over his head, outright murder was just a game. Anything he did would further endear him in this boy’s heart.
Ollie continued coughing. Spit sputtered everywhere, his chest convulsed and heaved, strings of saliva hung from his lips, and tears formed in his eyes. Basile slumped back against the headboard and massaged his temples.
“Oliver, we need to stop.”
Ollie opened his mouth as if to protest, but was interrupted by a cough.
A coil of smoke pulled Basile’s eyes to the ashtray holding his cigarette, still smoldering. Every claustrophobic corner of the room was filled with miasma. The thin rays of morning light could barely pierce through the smog that filled the air.
He’d lived alone in his own foul stench for years. It had been decades since he regarded another human inhaling his fumes.
Basile pulled Ollie up, and wiped the semen off his stomach with the bedsheet.
“Put some clothes on. Let’s go outside for fresh air.
The sun had yet to fully rise, and the city was still gray, asleep. The streets were devoid of life. The roads were unpolluted by cars as well. On the second floor walkway outside of their room, they would be alone for now.
Basile could only find his pants and shoes to wear, as Ollie had snatched up Basile’s dress shirt on the floor. His naked legs peeked out from under the crinkled shirt like a dress, and the sleeves were so long on him that they dragged down to his knees. As soon as Ollie had found the shirt, he quickly claimed it by using the sleeves as a handkerchief, staining it with every different kind of liquid that a human body could excrete. Basile mentally noted that he would have to buy a new button-up in that colorway.
Both men had their backs against the railway. Basile leaned against the railway with his arms crossed (the morning chill was harsh on one’s nipples), and Ollie squatted with flat feet on the concrete. His current coughing fit had been going on for quite some bit. As soon as it concluded, Basile popped a question.
“Are you asthmatic, boy?”
Who knows why he asked? It was obvious it wasn’t a sudden cold. The information wasn’t useful. The health of some post-pubescent delinquent didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. But that brittle, shriveled lump of conscience in Basile’s heart implored him to start their first proper two-way conversation.
With his gaze affixed to the ground, Ollie wiped his mouth with the shirt sleeve, hyperventilating. “I, uh, iunno. My ma smoked a bunch when I wuz a kid, she still does, didn’t seem like a problem cuz I never went to the doc---”
More coughing. Quite unproductive as it was. What was a man to do?
Basile looked behind him, then scanned the lot beneath them off the bannister. Not a soul in sight. With a creak of his knees, Basile kneeled next to Ollie, and Ollie responded by misting Basile’s chest hair with coughed-up spittle.
Ollie turned to embrace Basile, and buried his face into Basile’s shoulder. Basile stared at the sudden warmth on his side. Fuzzy and brown. Basile brushed the sweaty hair stuck on Ollie’s forehead out of his face, palm running through oily scalp, going down the nape of the neck. A long nail scraped the flesh of the neck a bit too deep, and Ollie yiped quietly. But Ollie’s haggard breaths slowed down a bit, and Basile took that as a sign of having done… something. He hesitantly placed a hand on Ollie’s back, feeling his heaving ribs. He tapped his fingers restlessly against the boy. Then he determined that he would attempt to pacify Ollie by touching his back in a warming manner. This was what those who look after infants do, right?
Even with the lightest graze up and down, through the shirt, Basile could trace every vertebrae down the boy’s spine. Ollie shivered a bit, and looked up at Basile with glassy eyes.
“Hey, hey man, what-- what’d you say back there? We uh--” He paused to clear his throat. “We gotta, we can’t-- what? Doin’ what?”
Basile stopped patting Ollie’s back. “This.”
He released Ollie from his hold, and pushed him away. Ollie swiftly closed the gap in between them by snapping a shove back. He continued to bump into Basile with his sternum, attempting to go chest-to-chest in some gorilla-like display of masculinity, but too small to properly see him eye-to-eye.
“Y’breaking up with me?!”
Basile lolled his head back and sighed. “No. We were never a thing”
He slumped against the railing, and rested his face into his palms. “I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not your babysitter, or therapist, and I’m certainly not your mother.”
Ollie shook his head, and gesticulated incoherently while grabbing his own face. “No, no, no, aw man, this sounds like a break up to me! We’ve been goin’ steady for MONTHS. I told my ma and all my buds and-- and--, aw jeez, what’d I do wrong?!” Ollie grabbed Basile by the arms. Basile tightened his lips at this invasion of personal space.
“Was it the blackmail? Oh man, it’s gotta be-- We can start over, right?” His fingers squeezed Basile’s shoulders, his arms, and his lower lip quivered. “C’mon, square one, just you n’ me, don’t need no classroom shit, we just bump into each other in the grocery store, and-- and-- I-- I’m sorry!”
Ollie threw himself into Basile’s chest, knocking the air out of the older man, and squeezed him tight. Basile wriggled in Ollie’s arms fruitlessly. The stained shirt between them created a suffocating moat of moisture. In his state of debilitation, Basile contemplated how he would best explain things to Ollie, with words even he could understand.
“It’s not you--” He attempted to shake off Ollie with a grunt, succeeding only in making the boy tighten his primate grip. “--it’s me.”
Ollie whimpering turned into wailing, into nonsensical hollering, only to be interrupted by his cough. He recovered, and muffled himself deeper into Basile’s bristly chest.
“So you ain’t my girlfriend anymore? Can’t we ‘least be friends?”
Light-headed and exhausted, Basile gave up his half-hearted struggle. His shoulders and arms fell limp. The boy’s insistent affection was narcotic. Nothing he did could free him from his embrace. He accepted his current status as the capuchin’s captive, and lay his head on Ollie’s bony shoulder. Maybe he could get some sleep.
They retained that position until Ollie finally tired himself out, and slumped his head into Basile’s lap. Basile felt an errant hand move to cup his buttocks.
“Man, MAN. It’s gonna suck seein’ you everyday in class, y’know. After everything we did together, n’ stuff.”
Basile sneered into Ollie’s ear. “Don't worry. I won’t be teaching any more after today. By summer, I’ll be long gone from American soil.”
He paused, and stopped smiling. He had said too much, far too much information to give to the boy. Ah, but what did it matter? What could an impoverished simpleton do? Book a flight to France at an exact date, and pinpoint his exact location? Bah! Technology couldn’t possibly be so advanced.
The sweaty mass on Basile’s lap rustled. “Aw JEEZ! I ain’t even THINK ‘bout summer… when school’s gone I won’t be able t’see you anymore, huh?” Ollie rolled over on his back to look up at Basile. “Can I call? Visit? Man, I’m gonna save up so much, gonna quit splurging on cans of Rockstar, gonna graduate--”
“Go find yourself a real girlfriend. Someone closer to your age. Someone who can share your generation’s interest in …” Basile rubbed his eyelids and wracked his brain. “...soldier boys cranking hoes and whatnot, perhaps Korean popular music. Forget about me.”
Ollie shifted his body, and began planting small kisses up Basile’s abdomen, up his chest, mumbling all the way and leaving a slug trail of snot. “I can’t just forget you, man, I love you more than anything I ever really, really, really liked before.” The boy kissed the side of his cheeks, haggard and hollow, and placed his lips on the protruding cheekbone. “How am I supposed to go back to normal real life after we met? I dunno if we’ll meet again and I love y--”
Basile snorted.
“Do you fall in love with everyone who throws some small scrap of attention your way?”
“Naw. Just the hot ones.”
Ollie rested his head against Basile’s breast, and snaked an arm behind Basile’s back to place his hand on the older man’s shoulder.
“Y’know, I just hated you at first. You smell and you’re weird, and you’re a dick. I didn’t give a shit about you. I dunno why alluva sudden seein’ your old videos and having you talk to me for once turned out like this. I dunno. Somethin’ crazy goin’ on.” Ollie looked up at Basile. The boy’s face was shiny with mucus, drool, and errant tears. The boy had stopped violently coughing, surely he would have stopped crying by now too. “Weird that you can see that much, y’know, everything from your tits to your butthole online. Drives me crazy knowin’ all that personal shit, knowing that much ‘bout you? But I ain’t never gonna get to know you. Y’know? Real deep brain shit, man.”
Basile took the opportunity to push his way out from Ollie’s grasp while the fool was soliloquizing. He stood up and started walking back to their room. Then he turned his head to look behind him. Just as expected, Ollie followed him. The boy resumed his position by Basile’s side, arm-in-arm, staring into the distance. Basile followed his gaze.
The first cars of the day made their way down the road, slogging off to work and live and sleep and repeat the cycle once more. A few errant early risers, ne’er-do-wells and the elderly, wandered the streets. Ollie was fixated on the pink sun breaking through the endless smog, forcing its way to be seen through the noxious fumes.
To the young man, this meant everything to him. For the old man, this was nothing but another error he’d forget and bury amongst the others throughout his weary years.
Ollie scooted closer to Basile’s side.
“Hey, it’s Monday y’know.”
Basile turned his head from the cityscape to look at Ollie once more. Ollie was beaming at him, the tips of his large front teeth peeking out from his smile. Tear stains were still dark and visible on his cheeks.
“Can I get a ride to school?”
Basile glanced downward and saw a pack of cigarettes in his shirt’s chest pocket. The familiar urge to smoke welled up within him.
Then he saw Ollie’s small frame through the unbuttoned top of the shirt, those thin clavicles heaving, and he felt his heart drop into a pit. Noticing Basile’s stare, Ollie took the cigarette pack out of the pocket and held it towards Basile.
“Those’ll kill you, y’know. My mom says my pops died of lung cancer.”
He decided against taking that pack of Gaulouises slims.
He turned away, and as he walked back to their motel room, he pondered the existence of young Oliver: 7th period French class, always tardy, never enough, a young man of little consequence in the world, who wandered the sea of life untroubled by the tendrils dragging him down. But at least his mother loved him. Or so Basile hoped, from how fondly young Oliver spoke of her. She should feed her son more healthily.
Basile coughed into his elbow as he opened the door. He didn’t care if Ollie followed him or not. The boy could keep his snot stained shirt, and masturbate in it daily for all that he cared. Because he didn’t care, and he was tired of caring, and he didn’t want to have to care for anyone ever again.
End Notes
This draft is much softer than the previous ones that I’d been toying with since January. Spy chokes Scout at Scout’s urging, rather than Spy trying to kill Scout after being fed up. Scout has more bodily autonomy.. and he's even creepier.
Scout’s allergy to cigarette smoke actively conflicts with Spy’s addiction -- they’re naturally incompatible!
I love ScoutSpy... great ship. Love these two personalities mashing up against each other in any universe, there's so much chemistry in their incompatibility! And a lot of similarities between their personalities, despite the contradictions. And for all the silly folks who cry "INCEST" at my version of the ship, they miss the point completely! It's not DADspy that's the draw, it's classically Oedipian! Spy's a replacement figure for Scout's absent mother!!! READING COMPREHENSION FOLKS!!
Whenever I write fic, it's rarely "just for fun" like I do for drawing lololol, it's cuz I wanna capture specific interactions and FEELINGZ and put them into a tidy lil bible for no one's reference. The first draft of this was posted on tumblr like 2 years ago LOL, it was a lot messier and shorter than this and written during a single sleepless night, but there was something in there I still wanted to pull out years later once I had developed my ideas further. Writing this was cathartic, and occasionally embarrassingly personal. But at least I had fun :^)
This will be Ollie n' Basile's little bible tale in a bubble, their only character arc, and where their story in this timeline ends. It has the gist of what I want to do with their characters for comics and drawing, so while I doubt I'll be personally writing more about them in this universe (it's hard to write!!!), I'm definitely using this energy to draw more of them :) And my brain can move on to other projects....