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maxwell often condemned religious devotion for it’s very nature of blind belief. he found it idiotic that anyone would worship just about anything unremarkable, and he found it even more reprehensible that some people devoted their entire lives to search for a god that might not even exist.
perhaps, with higgsbury at his feet, worshiping him so blindly, there might be a god after all.
maxwell was a good man. he went to church. he prayed, he confessed, he repented.
but what good was that now? here, in the constant? what good was the ‘god’ he prayed to? what good was all the repentance of the saccharine, unholy thoughts he had? could it be good for a man to deny himself of this for so long?
it made him sick, once, to think about another man that way.
now, with that good-for-nothing, idiotic scientist on his knees for him, he felt… what did he feel ?
power crackled up like fire into his stomach, his throat. maxwell felt like he was burning. he had burned before. but he did not feel weak, or pathetic, like he had. he felt euphoric, he felt destructive.
maxwell realized, then, that he was the fire.
he got a compulsion to snap higgsbury’s neck. he wanted to see him bleed, to hear him scream. maxwell wanted more than anything, for a moment, to make him suffer and beg for mercy. and he felt absolutely nothing about it. he wondered, for a moment, what had changed. would he once have felt bad had he not been trapped here for so long?
wilson was taking a positively pathetic attempt at fitting his cock down his throat, and for a moment maxwell wondered if he could kill him by forcing himself down his throat and crushing his windpipe. maybe once he was dead he would be more tolerable. less talking. less whining. less inventing.
maxwell stared at wilson, reveling in the way he glanced, self consciously up at him with wide eyes. something was so appealing about higgsbury. something made him want to violently murder him. maxwell liked the cat-and-mouse game with him. he liked seeing him struggle. wilson’s face was flushed, his eyes were unfocused, and his lips… his lips, pulled wide around maxwell’s cock. wet, and swollen.
wilson must have thought he would have gotten something out of this. he must have believed this was a bargain, or believed he was putting in a good word, a favor, to his god. he whined, writhed, made the most obscene noises. maxwell would kill every living thing on the constant, would let the universe collapse in, just to see him cry.
higgsbury has such a soft face , maxwell thought distantly.
he struck him across the face, hard. his hand stung. maxwell was sure, for a moment, that wilson could not be serious, not with the way he crawled back over to him with the tent in his pants. he was so pathetic, and maxwell was not sure if he liked it or not. all that was clear was that it was infuriating.
maxwell grabbed a handful of his hair and pried his jaw open with the other, slotting himself between his perfect, split, bleeding lips. the trail of blood that spread, crimson, across the length of his dick made him want to hurt higgsbury so much more.
“watch your teeth.”
he fucked higgsbury’s face with fervor, and for once, he almost begun praying again. how could anyone deny themselves of the euphoria, the pleasure of making a man yours? he struck higgsbury across the face, and kept his grip on his hair to keep his cock fit entirely inside his useless mouth.
something hedonistic bloomed in maxwell’s face, in his heart, in every nerve and part of his body. he held higgsbury’s face, and jaw in place. he focused his movement to his throat. he did not care if it hurt, if it was uncomfortable. he nearly forgot higgsbury’s name. all that mattered, all that centered him in the universe was his own thoughts and the pulsing, burning need in his stomach.
the anticipation did not deter him. he did not melt, or lose composure. maxwell had promised himself that he would not fall apart at the hands of wilson higgsbury. but truly, he wanted nothing more than wilson at this very moment. he would be content, in the heat and fervor, forever. he held wilson’s neck with firm hands, as he came down his throat.
wilson’s whined, choked, and distantly, through the stickiness of his thoughts, maxwell wondered what his entrails would look like.