"I swear to god, I will throw my fucking shoe at you if you don't shut up!"
Brendon is a curious little hybrid who takes a particular shine to Dallon.
Dallon is honestly just trying to have a normal life.
Until Brendon comes along and fucks that up...
Thank you for 4K votes and 5K comments! I never thought I'd get 1K of either of them but look at this, it's a massive fucking mile stone for me and I'm so happy that you have all stuck around and are going to be sticking around to let me make a sequel! ( which is coming up very soon! )
I apologise for not updating, but a mixture of being extremely tired and having no motivation to write does that.
People weren't happy with the last chapter, evident from the comments and votes that it got, but it had to be done for this chapter to exist.
I'm aiming for 30 comments please?
Tears? Tears. You're welcome. (:
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Waking up to an empty bed is something that Brendon has grown use to, he usually doesn't mind because it means he can sprawl out on the bed like a star fish, take all of the covers and wrap himself up like a borrito and sleep without Dallons annoying uneven snoring in his sensitive kitten ears. Dallon has to work and that's understandable because money is needed to keep them living in their house and food on the table and Brendon knows that Dallon will be home not too long later.
This morning, however, Brendon is waking up drenched in sweat, the bedsheets tangled around his legs, his heart going a mile a minute in his chest, the thumping loud in his ears. It feels like he can't breath, like there's a weight on his chest and he just can't breathe, it's so constricting, so suffocating that Brendon is grasping for something, someone to hold to weigh him down, a heart beat to calm him down, to relax him.
But nobody's there. The bed is cold, his pillow soaked with stale sweat and salty tears that are still running down his cheeks, off of his chin. It's still there, fresh in his mind, as clear as a picture and Brendon can't get his voice, his face, his actions out of his head and it makes him want to scream because he was doing better, so much better.
His stomach is in tight knots, coiled up in that oh so familiar way it use to feel after Spencer had used him, pushed him onto his knees, forced him down onto a bed. The way your stomach feels before you throw up, throat clenching, mouth watering and before he knows it, Brendon is finding himself rushing to the bathroom, fingers clenched white around the porcelain toilet bowl.
Body trembling, hands a shaking grip on the wide toilet bowl, Brendon's entire body clenches as he throws up last nights dinner, lunch, breakfast and everything else that he ate. It's disgusting and Brendon's mouth is a dry, stale taste of vomit when he's done and the tears are back, running down his cheeks s he sobs into the toilet bowl, not trusting himself to move away.
Last night had been so good, Dallon had been so good to him that it was the complete opposite of everything that Spencer had been in that department. He'd been so gentle, so caring, so hesitant with every move that he made and asking Brendon if things were okay, if he wanted it to stop, if he still wanted all of this to happen. And he did. Brendon wanted to be treated well, he wanted Dallon to show him how to treated right with sex.
