Short Things by yours truly

Focus on me

<->(written February of 23) Oscar and Wilder (from the movie Closet Monster) smut, nothing graphic just know that in the background of most of this, they are having sex. TWs-> mentions of the fallowing: trauma, homophobia, homophobic hate crime, stabbing.

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Trauma was a bitch.

It really was.

It ate someone's mind, spit it out, stomped on it, then kept rubbing it in your face just how hard it'd stomped on it, before chewing it again; sinking its sharp teeth into the fragile bindings, and yelling at you through that mouthful.

He wasn't even the one who got stabbed, and yet, here he was, every single time anything sexual happened to him, he was the one being stabbed.

That brings up the fact of homophobia also being a bitch. All of this could've been prevented if, one: people weren't so hateful, and two: if his dad hadn't been the same.

He thought it'd be so much better after that 'scene', as his mother so kindly referred to it as.

But it wasn't. It was still the same.

At least he had Wilder. When exactly he came back was a mystery to Oscar, that whole week after the 'scene' was a blur for him.

He'd even been able to open up to Wilder about this so very troublesome stabbing that he experienced every time he was simply turned on.

And, to Oscar's surprise, Wilder had offered to help.

He'd offered to help Oscar find ways to cope with the trauma.

Oscar almost collapsed onto the floor in a blob of very sudden, and very overwhelming trust for the other guy.

'Almost' meaning, that he had collapsed, just into Wilder's arms instead of onto the floor.

That's how he got here, with Wilder straddling his lap, telling him so sweetly and kindly to focus on his face.

Whispering softly against his lips, random mentions of praise about how well he was doing, and just telling him to focus on his words, his face, his hair, anything above the shoulders.

So he did just that, and for the first time in his life, he'd been able to reach orgasm. He'd been able to get to that part.

He hadn't been stabbed.

He. Hadn't. Been. Stabbed.

Tears flowed down his cheeks, down his neck and chest as he held onto the man above him, forehead pressed against his chest so roughly that it would surely leave a red mark, or even a bruise.

And Wilder just held him, let him have his moment, hell- had the moment with him.

Oscar was sure he'd felt a wetness against his own scalp, and it couldn't have been from his eyes.

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<->I watched this movie, got completely and utterly confused, and then got extremely attached to these two characters. This idea has been sitting rent free in my head ever since I first watched it, and it's still going strong. Hope you enjoyed :)