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Jevil is sitting at the tiny bedside table of his room with his nose buried in a book, some horrible heathen thing, 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra' if Spamton is to trust the title on the cover. Sounds like pretentious sinner nonsense. Spamton sits on Jevil's cot and repaints his nails for the fifth time this week. They don't really need it, but it’s not like he has anything better to do.
"Right after the next room check you should let me suck you off."
He doesn't look up from his book when he says it. Spamton could've chalked it up to a particularly lewd ghost if Jevil hadn't mumbled a follow-up sentence when it became clear to him that’s precisely what Spamton was trying to pretend it was.
"It'll be fun, fun. A game to see if I can get you to finish in fifteen minutes."
That induces a tremor in Spamton’s hand. His entire left index finger is now hot pink.
“What the s-s-s-shit is your damage, clown?”
Jevil finally looks up from his book and giggles in that mirthless way whatever meds they have him on does to him.
“No damage, all game. Maybe you’ll finally stop believing I’m out to get you if I do something for you with no benefit to me.”
It’s been a long time, a very very long time, since he’s so much as trusted anyone to share a room alone with him, let alone to…
No, what the hell is he thinking? That’s not just sin, that’s the worst sin a man can commit. Leviticus, “man shall not lie with man as he would a woman”,as he’d often scrawled into the back of his hands with a fingernail on those lonely nights when it gets too hard for him to remember without a little external memory aid.
“I am not a f-f-fucking homosexual.” he growls, just as much to himself as to his roommate’s proposal.
“Pretend I’m a girl, then. You’re great, great at pretending stuff.” He slides a bookmark into his heathen book and shrugs his shoulders. “Won’t be able to see my face from underneath you. How’s that sound?”
It sounds a lot fucking better than painting his nails another time. It’s been so long. Years. No one of either gender has ever made an offer for anything like that.
…Or so much as given him the basic respect of seeing him as another human being, even. It’s been lonely and miserable and one can only keep themself company with their right hand while feverishly trying to quiet impure homosexual thoughts for so long before it starts to feel more like misery than company.
Mike would have some harsh words on the subject, Dr. Gaster another set of words entirely, but, Lord, he’s only a man. Men are weak. The Lord forgives.
“Fifteen minutes ain’t a long time.”
“I can do anything.”
His legs quiver involuntarily at the round man’s spunky confidence. He feels the tip of his nose get hot as his mind wanders, wondering if he really can do anything.
“I am not a homosexual.” he repeats, but even he isn’t convinced by the way he says it. It’s been so long.
Jevil grins ear to ear. He knows an agreement when he hears one.
“I’m a cute girl. Metamorphosis.” Another mirthless laugh, but he’s looking right at Spamton as he lets it slip out of his crooked teeth. His eyes are warm. “I need you to keep quiet, quiet. They’re going to be listening in for your ‘speaking in tongues’ ass.”
This place sucks. A guy can’t become possessed by the Holy Spirit once without everyone making a goddamn national event out of it.
And, okay, maybe he is a little loud during his most private moments. Not that he’s ever done any of that kind of stuff while he’s been locked up, for Jevil to know that.
He caps the bottle of nail polish like he’s just put the finishing touches on signing a contract. ‘One blowjob from a moderately attractive and very much into him juggalo in exchange for literally nothing’ is not exactly the kind of deal he’s used to striking, but he can't deny it’s one heavily loaded in his favor. He looks at the clock hanging in the nurse’s station that he can see through the heavy wooden door of their room’s window.
Just over a minute until checks. And then, showtime.
“I’m a man.” Convincing enough. True enough. There’s a lot of unspoken things hiding behind that simple statement, though, and he hopes Jevil can parse them.
“And I’ll make you feel like one, one.”
He understands, alright. Fuck, that room check can’t come soon enough.
There’s the knock, and then there’s the nurse, a baby faced buff gentleman running his usual night shift. He looks at Jevil, who has temporarily retreated back into his book to keep up appearances.
He looks at Spamton, who undoubtedly is still as flushed and sweaty as moments ago. He tries his best to pretend to be invested in peeling off the excess pink nail polish from his finger.
“Room check, Addison, DeVille.” He lingers his pen over the clipboard. “You okay, Addison?”
Terrible as every other time he gets referred to by that name, but he’s long since given up on that particular fight.
“J-just mad I messed up the paint.” He holds the finger out in the most half-assed lie of all time.
“Right.” He scribbles two checks and exits just as quickly as he entered.
Small blessings that both he and Jevil have been mostly behaving themselves lately.
Bigger blessing still that despite his size Jevil can cross a room silently in seconds flat. He’s on his knees and pulling up Spamton’s somehow still too large child sized hospital gown before the door creaks completely shut.
And, before he can properly form an opinion on that very new set of stimuli, Jevil has already disappeared between his legs underneath the fabric.
“F-f-f-fuck.” is about the best observation he can make on the matter.
“Quiet,” his crotch replies. “Bite your fist, or something. Noisy, noisy.”
There’s hot breath steaming up places on him he’s very not used to feeling hot breath on. He obliges, because Lord, he is liable to start singing some profane hymns any moment.
As if on cue, that hot breath gets closer, closer still. And then it turns wet and solid, and sweet Heaven, Lord above, amen. Something is brushing the tip of his cock. Jevil’s fat tongue, the very one Spamton has often observed polishing off ice cream bars in a single slurp.
He chomps his fist hard to stifle a moan building in his throat, head turning to the fluorescent hospital lights above to keep from looking at the indecent sight of the moving head-shaped lump between his knees below him. A hand pats the inside of his thigh twice gently, reassuringly. He swallows the moan.
Jevil’s tongue goes from a gentle brushing of his tip to licking down the shaft painfully slow, farther and farther each time. His hips buck into each lick, having to trade moans for motion.
It’s amazing and unbelievable and heavenly, and too goddamn slow.
Too slow. They have less than fifteen minutes. Twelve, now, he notes on the clock he can barely keep his eyes focused on to read it.
He brazenly makes the gamble to unclench the fist lodged in his mouth.
“F-f-faster.” He manages a lust drenched hiss instead of the scream his throat desperately wants to let out. He’s proud of the restraint. “F-f-fuck, please, faster.”
He only has a moment's reaction time to shove his hand back in before he gets exactly what he asked for. Jevil’s tongue is deft and fast and slobbering drool all down his hips as it goes. Of course this joker knows how to work his tongue, it’s practically in the job description, and oh Lord, he’s good.
Spamton takes his free hand and lowers it to the bobbing sphere between his legs making those beautiful obscene slurping noises while kissing his dick like it’s ever done anything good for him.
He runs his fingers over where he imagines Jevil’s shaggy graying mane is thickest. ‘Cute girl’, yeah. Enough hair to be one, anyway.
Why is he doing this for Spamton? What’s his angle? This is stupid and dangerous, and in a place that can turn your brain to sludge if they deem you a threat, stupid and dangerous decisions are especially stupid and dangerous.
He doesn’t get to consider the clown’s motives for much longer because Jevil takes this time to wrap his gigantic mouth around his entire member.
Lord, Christ, amen. He’s not exactly packing anything to write home about between his legs or anything, but having his whole cock in someone’s mouth…
Makes him feel like a man. Jevil was right about that. He can feel a thousand “Miss Addisons'' and “ma’ams” being sucked directly out of him. He’s a man, a real man, regardless of what this shithole thinks he is. A self-proclamed gay man is gleefully letting him, another man despite what they say, fuck his throat.
He pulls his fist back out of his mouth. He needs both hands for this, one for the top of Jevil’s head and one for the small of his back, using the leverage to curl his whole body into that passionate heaven-sent sucking.
“F-f-fuck, thank you. God- Goddamn.” His teeth are clenched so tightly it's making his whole neck sore. He’ll take a little bit of pain for this. He’ll wonder why he deserved this, or why it was even offered to him, later.
Three minutes, reminds the nurse station clock. He’s close. He can feel it, his own sopping juices mixing with all that gnarly-mouthed clown drool in what is going to be a hard puddle to explain pooling on the mattress underneath him.
Even with his cock wedged in his mouth, Jevil’s tongue never relents in its licking. It traces heathen words, pentagrams, dark curses in obscene tongues, fast and feverish like it has a mind all its own.
God, Lord, Father and Son, how can this be Hell when it’s carrying him up to Heaven? His legs wrap involuntarily around his favorite blasphemy as his orgasm gets closer and closer.
It comes smashing headfirst into him,as subtle as a clown in a mental hospital. His hips grind into Jevil’s crooked teeth with one deep thrust as he squeezes the top of the poor man’s head like he’s the only thing keeping him from crashing through the ceiling. His glasses go askew as his neck snaps backward to push any orgasmic moans back into the pit of his stomach.
He opens his eyes and straightens out just in time. Less than one minute.
“F-f-fuck, Jevil, out, out!”
And despite having just had his mouth used as a clown-themed fleshlight moments ago, he’s able to crawl across the room and lick away most of the cum and drool smeared across his wide grinning face with one swipe of the tongue Spamton is never going to be able to look at the same way again.
Most of it, anyway. Hopefully the heathen book he’s already raising up in mock-reading will cover the rest.
Spamton makes sure he’s sitting down in a wide enough stance to hide the puddle underneath him. There’s not a ton he can do about the rest of his appearance. He’s still shaking like an electrocuted marionette from the aftershocks.
Hopefully the buff night nurse will be just as unobservant this check as last time.
Knock. In he comes.
“Room check, Addison, DeVille.” Both his and Spamton’s eyes go to Jevil, who he’d swear was actually that interested in his ‘Thus Spoke’ whatever whatever. He’s a good actor. Spamton supposes that’s a clown thing.
Eyes on Spamton, now. He’s mostly gotten his twitching down to what could pass for his usual tics to an unrefined gaze. “You sure you’re feeling alright, Addison?”
“Y-yeah.”
The nurse nods, and scribbles his two checks.
Spamton can’t help sighing with relief as he turns to the door.
“Wait a second.” Oh shit oh shit oh shit. The sigh morphs into awful hyperventilation and the afterquakes shift to proper nervous twitching. “You like Nietzche, DeVille?”
Jevil laughs.
“God of the gaps, gaps. Funny stuff.”
“Yeah. Everything that can’t be explained must be God’s doing. Hah.” He points at Spamton and back to Jevil. “How do you two get along with such different feelings about all that religious stuff?”
Jevil’s grin turns ferocious. Spamton tries very hard not to wriggle too awkwardly as the puddle of slime underneath him goes cold.
“All about finding what God to fill the gaps with, eheuehe.”
The nurse nods and shuffles out of the room.