bakerstreet | /CLINGS FOREVER

/CLINGS FOREVER

The Let's Fucking Cuddle Meme

action is fun and smut is nice and mysterious magical hijinks through space and time are the bomb diggity. and sometimes you just want to aggressively cuddle your friend/sibling/parent/pet/lover/acquaintance/this new person you are meeting now.

this meme is for just that: latching on and not letting go until that what/whoever has been cuddled.

how this works;
1. post your character with as much/little information as you want (name/series/preferences/whatever).
2. go to rng for a number for where and why the cuddles are happening. or just pick one.
3. respond to others.
4. cuddle. but like. really cuddle. no one is letting go until everyone is completely thoroughly cuddled.

a. where
1. by a heat source : because outside is cold but this fire/space heater/demon is warm and cozy and just right. winter is just getting started, okay.
2. away from a heat source : wow going out into the snow during a rainstorm a million miles from the nearest blanket was a poor choice--but wait. there's snuggles.
3. a private place : maybe you're watching a movie on the couch, maybe you're catching up on the newspaper in the breakfast nook, maybe it doesn't matter because whatever you're about to be cuddled.
4. a public place : cuddle time waits for no man or no "more appropriate" setting sometimes. out in a park, in an airport, in the middle of a food court--the time for snuggles is now and other people be damned.
5. somewhere else : if somehow a place which is unrelated to heat and/or neither in or outside. even in such a place there can still be cuddles.

b. why
1. the sleepies - it's been a long day and all you want to do is close your eyes for a bit. do this by claiming someone as a cuddle you can sleep on.
2. bad weather - heavy rain, thunder, blizzard, monsoon; these are things which ruin plans. luckily, they cannot ruin cuddles.
3. because surprise - is your buddy working too much and needs a distraction? are you being ignored when you need a hug? does the love just need to be spread? whatever it is, they won't see it coming until they're being snuggled.
4. activity conducive - maybe you're watching a movie or reading a book or squished together in a train car or dancing to the point of exhaustion or waiting in line for a thing. it's just super easy to change whatever you're doing into being a pile of cuddles. so do it.
5. so emotion very love - it's totally platonic but still totally overwhelming. the love you have for this person just needs to be expressed, and only a clinging of cuddles will do. hug them. hug them now and also forever.
6. jeepers creepers - was it a spider in the washroom, a ghost in the attic, a bad dream, a figment of your imagination, an actual serial killer? probably all. probably a nightmare ghost spider serial killer breaking out of your imagination. clinging to someone might fix it.
7. there, there, little friend - sick in bed, just been dumped or having some other sort of crappy day, you need someone to wrap their arms around you and make everything go away.
8. that other thing - whatever, you do what you want. you go, cuddle friend. you do your thing.

lovingly squished together out of these memes and cuddled together.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

You think I care? Don't.

[He withdraws his arm, awkwardly shifts around to face away from Petre, their backs pressed together and one of his arms hanging right off the edge of the bed. It won't be enough, nothing will be enough, but he's still not giving in that easily.

Part of him knows that this is where it's all going to fall apart. It's going to happen tonight. The inevitability is stifling, but he still can't fight it - this has dragged on so long, through so much, and he just wants it to end. He wants the tension to break so that he can breathe again, not the near-relaxation he felt while Petre was gone but real freedom.

Still, he won't give in that easily. Petre deserves to work for it.]

[Petre doesn't let him get away for too long. It's enough that he even stays on the same bed, that he doesn't just storm out and away, back to his side of the room to establish distance between them. Instead he's still here, back touching his up until the moment it's Petre who turns around and puts an arm around his waist, slides his hand carefully to wrap him in an embrace, nuzzling the back of his neck. They're all slow movements, almost as though he's actually giving John enough space and time to say no and refuse him if he wants to.

He won't.]

You're still warm. Like... [A beat. He inhales quietly.] Burnt oak. Just like I remember.

[Yes, he knew this was coming, and it just makes him let out a long, shuddering sigh. There's something so sweet about Petre's nose pressed into the nape of his neck, such a lie but so sweet, and they fit together alarmingly well compared to the way Ryan's gangly body just surrounds and envelops him. This feels more like dovetail joints sliding together.]

Don't do this. [Now his voice is strained, ready to shatter rather than snap like usual.] If it has to happen, for fuck's sake, don't lie through this one thing.

[He's still nuzzling John when the reluctant begging comes, lips spreading into a soft little chuckle, lightly touching skin with his mouth to plant more kisses that read as a lie to anyone who knows better. Just maybe not to someone who desperately wants to believe it.]

Nothing's going to happen.

[A promise he's sure he can keep only because he's equally sure John will make him break it. He's never stopped wanting John, even during those times he completely forgot about him in the middle of all the drinking and fucking, and he knows John will never stop wanting him. Ryan is a temporary substitute for something he knows he'll never fully have. Not without Petre.]

Do you want me to?

[He can't answer at first, his breaths coming out too sharp and ragged to be formed into any type of speech. Lips on his neck, soft little kisses - he has absolutely no greater weakness. Already he's melting into the mattress, parts of his body growing soft and pliant while others start to stir to life, and Petre's lies barely seem to matter anymore.]

I hate you. [Even that sounds like a plea, like he wants Petre to make it real somehow.] I've never - ever - fucking hated someone more than I hate you.

[I hate you. The words come precisely when Petre nibbles at the bottom of his earlobe. He's still grinning because he's absolutely delighted with the struggle broiling inside the other boy, that heat that burns with every bit of darkness he's always wanted to burst right out of his chest. If he'd only given Petre a chance... if he'd said yes and followed him to the end of the world - then he really would have had everything. They wouldn't be here now because John would never have allowed the same people who caused these nightmares to come close.

And even here, even now when Petre is at the very center of the reasons behind his near-fall, he finds a way to place the blame on someone else.]

So say no. Tell me to stop. I will.

[Instead of the words no, stop, Petre gets a pathetic whimper and a deep shudder that travels all the way through his body in a pronounced wave. He can tell himself that Petre wouldn't stop, he always insisted he didn't want to stop and that was justification enough for him in the past, but the truth is that he would. After enough forcing away, his pride would be bruised enough that he would stop. It was never about making John do anything, not through any means.

Petre lived for this exact day, knew it would come, and now it's here. What complete, fierce, arrogant satisfaction he must feel, John thinks bitterly. Even as he continues to remain silent, his last pitiful protest the back that he keeps turned despite his hips already shifting back toward the perfect notch formed by Petre's body.]

[There's something involuntary but entirely welcome when John's hips shift back toward him, and he rolls his right back against him. It's a soft brush, something that could almost be read as innocent if it wasn't so sexually charged. There's always been so much tension between them, almost entirely cultivated by Petre's incessant approaches to John, his prodding and and harassment. How the other boy managed to last this long without breaking down is a total wonder.

How Petre manages to hold out in this moment is just as amazing.

Instead of moving down his hand comes back up, brushing John's hair behind his ear before planting one more kiss on his neck. Then is slides beneath his arm and wraps around his chest where Petre lets it rest, exhaling a soft sigh to relax his body down on the mattress.

Petre doesn't need to prove anything. Ryan means nothing. He wins.]

You didn't say it.

Why are you still talking?

[Why are they still cuddling? Why hasn't Petre just made his move already, as brazen as ever? John's capitulated. He's proven it a million times over. So why won't he just -

- oh god. It's one of two things, he thinks: either he needs to take the lead now, or he needs to say the reverse of what Petre's told him to say. Petre wants to hear, aloud, that John wants him. Wants this, all of this, over what he has. One would definitely be a typical power play, but the other would be outright cruel, so he's banking on the second being true.

His breaths still coming much too heavily, almost panting, he lies still again and waits to find out which it is.]

Relax.

[To John's confusion and agitation he offers serenity. A gentle calm that he soothes with a hand in his hair and his lips next to his ear. It was Petre who needed arms around him to bring him back from his unrest just minutes ago, and now it's his turn to cause both.

(If during these nights there's been a stranger giving him nightmares, he's been causing John's since the day they first met.)]

Nothing's going to happen. I just want you here.

[And in another moment his arms rearrange themselves, one slipping under John's body to meet the other hand, hold him close in a warm embrace. Once again he breathes his scent in, buries his head in his shoulder and murmurs a little sound of thankful indulgence.]

Don't go.

Bullshit.

[He's reduced to a trembling whisper, because this is so much worse - there are traps within traps here, a million of them, leaving him with no idea where to step but a need to take some kind of action. Petre can't really think John will just lie in his arms and relax, fall asleep here as if they shared any kind of mutual tenderness. He can't think John will believe that's even what he wants right now.

There's no comfortable move to make, no easy choice. Of course. His betrayal of Ryan has to be complete to make up for Ryan's false betrayal having been exposed; this time, Petre will have everything he wants and zero culpability.

His mind is whirling, his skin crawling. There's a scream building up in his lungs that he's not sure he'll be able to keep down much longer.]

I know what you fucking want. You want my life torn to shreds. And you're gonna make me do it myself.

I'm not making you do anything.

[It's all in your head, John. The smile doesn't fade from his lips as he speaks; instead it softens with another intake of John's pleasant scent on his neck, just another kiss planted, wet and sonorous. John could kick and cry and Petre would be doing the exact same thing. A comfort to some, but pure torture to him, because he knows better. He knows Petre.

And isn't that torture in itself?]

John -

[He shifts quietly, hand slipping from his stomach to his navel. He arches his back and hips to make room, digs his fingers under the waistline of his pants and cups his own cock. For a moment that's all it is, just a change of position, but then he presses himself into the other boy's back.]

Turn around.

[Ugh. And he probably believes that, too. Making is physically or mentally forcing - all the games he plays, all the delicate manipulations, they don't count. They're merely ways to bring together what fate, or whatever he believes links the two of them, intended. Practically working through him rather than him controlling them.

He wants to be sick. He's going to be sick.

The sound of his name snaps him out of it just in time, though, and all that shifting behind him provides ample distraction from such dark thoughts. What is Petre doing? Is he finally - ah, fuck, he's going for something, but the request to turn around means that it's not what it initially seems. Slowly, unease painted all across his features, he turns to face Petre without touching or moving toward him at all.]

What. [Every time he speaks his voice is weaker, more uncertain and resigned to his complete loss of control.] What are you gonna do.

[What is he going to do? It's a question Petre answers with actions that speak so much louder than words. His eyes are shut already, brows knitted with a whimper as he tilts his chin down and toward his chest, hips shifting into the slow jerks of his hand. Petre never made any pretense of hiding it, but it's obvious in the moan that he draws out, breathing in to exhale with another sonorous sigh, that he's masturbating.]

Ah -

[He shudders with another roll, eyes open once more to gaze right back at John. It's a gaze that practically begs him to look back, to see him in the exact same way. He's quickly growing hard, chest already heaving with each sharp and shallow breath.]

It's okay - [another whimper, lips parted,] This isn't wrong.

[Ryan doesn't have to know.]

Petre...

[His voice is choked, eyes wide, as he watches those deliberate movements and listens to those perfect, perfect sounds. Gorgeous little moans and whimpers and sighs that make him shiver in sympathy even though he isn't touching himself or even physically aroused yet. By the time he does look back up into Petre's eyes, his own are glazed, and he has to lick his lips before he can speak.]

That's - all you -

[And that's all he can manage. It's hard to tell if he's relieved or disappointed, because all he can think either way is that it's a whole new level of torture: hearing Petre aroused, hearing him approach and hit climax, feeling him shift and thrust, but neither of them touching the other the whole time.]

[There's a tremor when his eyes shut tight, mouth dropped for breaths that struggle to come. Petre then leans in to take the scent from John's neck, lips hovering without direct contact, without touching anything but himself.]

Don't tell me to stop. Please don't tell me to - nnh -

His hand produces faster jerks, light and brisk at times, slow and deep in turns, whimpers coming one after the other. His features are hidden in John's shoulder, legs and hips tense, tilting toward him in uncontrollable little forward movements.]

John - [a cracked little exhale, voice practically pleading in nature,] You smell so good.

Oh god - [It's the most helpless, pathetic sound he's ever made.] Oh god, oh god -

[And that's when he can't resist anymore, can't ask for more or demand less - all he can do is slide his hand into his own pyjama pants, swallowing hard as he grasps himself and starts to mirror those strokes. He wants it to be Petre's hand more than he's ever wanted anything in his life, wants to taste his lips, the cock he's working so feverishly; this want has never been so acute, because he's never been so close and yet kept at a distance.

No. He's keeping himself at a distance. If he climbed atop Petre right now and demanded they fuck, there's no way Petre would reject him, but this distance is safer. This isn't wrong, he said, and like hell it isn't, but by this point John has to work in degrees. It's probably the least wrong he can manage right now.]

Look at me. [His voice is tense and strangled, but it's still a demand, not a request. He's shivering under his own ministrations now, arching up into his hand just as much as Petre and digging his feet into the mattress as hard as he can to keep from doing more.] Give me that much at least.

[All John has to do is sound his voice; it's enough to make Petre's cock twitch, just a drop of come pouring out and into his hand with a rounded, breathy moan, almost aching. He rolls his hips again in John's direction, shifting his legs to adjust his position, to tilt his erection into his grip and exert more pressure on its length. It's only when the demand comes that he lifts his head to swallow hard, to look at him in a heated daze.]

I'll give you anything, [Another promise that sounds like a plea, no louder than his whimpers,] Anything you want.

[Lies, lies, he's lying through his teeth, but Petre's at his most appealing (and mesmerizing) when he's at his weakest, whether it's honest or not. And now John simply can't resist any longer.]

Touch me. [It's just the tiniest whisper, punctuated by a shove of his own hips that finally brings them into contact: just a brush of knuckles through layers of fabric, but enough to make him gasp after all the self-denial.] Please, fuck, I can't - just touch me, Petre -

[Don't make him take himself over the edge, not when Petre's close enough for their breath to mingle and John's picking up the scent of his arousal now, and he finally, finally can't take it. Don't turn him away when he's finally given in, that might be what breaks him completely.]

[Brushing together, hips stilted and yearning, the ache reads all over Petre's face in either another play of theatrics or genuine sentiment. Truth is he doesn't want to touch John. He wants him to break, wants him to be split right in the middle between his desires and his fidelity to Ryan. He wants him to live with what he's done, guilty but incapable of ever pointing out the blame to the corrupter. That is so much better than any gratification he'd get from fucking his brains out.

But here he is. Begging. Completely giving in. It's complete, untainted victory. Petre wins no matter what.

A shaken breath escapes through his lips, shifting his hips up against John's erection as his hand rolls around his hips, digs into his pants and finds his cock to touch him, warm and deep, tracing the length slowly, painfully, circling his fingers at the tip.]

This isn't wrong - this isn't wrong. [He repeats it in a kind of daze, nuzzling him, lips hovering without ever connecting while his leg intertwines with John's to lock them together. It means nothing if they don't kiss. It's just sex. Hands. Limbs.]

You're so hard.

I don't care, I - ah! [He's too loud when Petre takes hold of him, nearly a full-voiced cry, but he doesn't care about that either. He's completely consumed by the need that's eaten away at him for so long now, worn at the already thin fabric of his morals and the (he once thought) indestructible fortress of his pride until it all came to this. How did he think it would be? There were a million variations in his head when he let it wander in that direction. But he always knew Petre would be skilled, casually skilled in a way that drove John mad without any idea why, and his hand alone is proving that assumption right; every brush of fingertips, every bit of pressure, seems to hit a spot more sensitive than he could've imagined, making him bite down on Petre's pillow to keep from waking up the whole school with the sounds his body wants to produce.

Is it just the break in such thick, long-standing tension having this effect on him? No, it can't be. Petre is good, as good as he always promised, and he's not even stroking John properly yet.]

- I don't care. I need you, I need, I can't - [It keeps coming back to I can't. Both I can't do this and I can't resist this. He's still split down the middle, even now that he's given in, and praying for the moment when desire finally takes him far enough to stop caring entirely.

Not daring to think of the moment when it melts away and then disappears. Not yet.]

[He laughs softly, teeth showing through split lips, licking at John's neck and finding his way up to his ear, just the way he knows he loves it, torturing him with every single trick up his sleeve. John can barely keep himself together with the way he's biting into the pillow, twitching and inching himself around just to get more from Petre's hand, and that's almost enough to make both their heads spin.

I need you. I need you. It's practically everything he's ever wanted to hear. It's almost everything he's wanted to have from the moment he realized the potential in the other boy. Now he has him in his grasp, and his hand is moving to the sway of his hips, pushing and pulling against him in his own rhythm, moaning just to drive him mad. His jerks pick up speed to the sound of his pleas, thumb settled on the head of his cock.]

Yeah? Yeah - [A gasp, pressing his own cock against John's leg, rubbing into it hard.] You're so fucking hard, John - you're so hot. Come for me. Come for me.

[By the time Petre laughs, giving up the act entirely, John really doesn't care anymore. The attention to his neck, the way his hand finally starts to jerk properly and it's still so much fucking better than a handjob should be, and then the frantic rubbing against his own leg like some kind of horny animal, all blend together to leave him incoherent. Nearly sobbing, body squirming and writhing in every direction to try and find as much contact as possible while only his hips keep up the same steady, pistoning rhythm. He's already so close. So close, when there's so much more they could do -

Come for me, Petre insists, come for me, and it might as well be an order.]

Pe - Petre - [It's everything the other boy could've dreamed of, John's voice spiralling upward and cracking on the last syllable of his name as he nearly crushes his groin against Petre's and freezes for a long moment, then spills over his hand with a very real sob. It all happened so fast after that slow, slow seduction that he stays trapped in his immediate post-orgasm haze much longer than he normally would, almost confused about what his body just did. Like he's a preteen again.]

Petre... [All the way back down to a whisper.]

[Fuck - fuck, how in the world is Petre supposed to hold himself back and keep any control over this situation when John is giving himself completely, giving himself in ways that are so indulgent and manic that his own arousal becomes actually painful to withstand, forcing him to squeeze the space between his legs, shift his hips with the discomfort, hands too busy on John to grasp himself. His tongue pads at John's skin, licks him from his ear to his shoulder, sucks hard enough to leave red marks, and it's in that moment of stillness that Petre's mouth hangs open. Then John shakes and in his hand he comes, sudden and intense, crying out the wrong name for all the wrong reasons.

His breath is trembling when he looks down, seeing only the shape of his hand and the translucent fluid around his fingers in the darkness. It comes up, slowly, almost careful enough not to let a drop touch John's stomach or his clothes. Fingers then dip into his mouth and he licks at them, obscene and slow.]

You taste so fucking good.

[A soft little moan. He's still impossibly hard, still pressing against him.]

[It's impossible to look away as Petre licks his hand clean. John sucks his lips between his teeth and chews hard, eyes following every moment of Petre's tongue as his exhausted body tries to draw up one last spark of arousal from the sight; there are tiny shivers, a sharp breath through his nose, but he's utterly spent. All he can think is that he knows what'll be next, what'll happen when they do this again, now that he's seen Petre's tongue at work.

That's when it hits him exactly what has happened, and that he's already accepted the inevitability of it happening again, and again and again until Petre's finally gone forever. The barrier he built between them, struggled and strained to keep standing, can't be rebuilt. He had to keep it fortified so well precisely because there was no second chance - as much as it sounded like senseless arrogance, and John tried to tell himself it was nothing more, Petre was always right about the fact that John couldn't stop if he ever allowed himself to start.]

Oh god. [He doesn't sound desperate or pleading anymore. Now he just sounds hollow, drained dry in a very different way.] Oh fuck -

[But Petre's still nudging his leg, and while nothing would give him more satisfaction than walking away from that after he apparently got what he wanted, that's barely a legitimate play after how it all came about. There are no plays left because it's no longer a game. John has succumbed to Petre completely, even if it was nothing more than a handjob, because he asked for it. He was given a safer option, the option of distance, and denied it because he needed Petre so badly. He actually spoke those words.

He plans to act on Petre's continued arousal, and since there's no action to take other than deepening his grave, he'll be putting himself well and truly underground. But the shock still has hold of him for now, the guilt and rage and utter self-loathing - why did Ryan ever believe he could be a better person? Why did he? - and he can't move. All he can do is stare into Petre's eyes, his own wide and empty, and wait for the strength to truly destroy everything he's built for himself.]

/CLINGS FOREVER

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nope, put that icon away

rubs it on yo face

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JESUS RAMPAGING TL;DR

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