13 Resons Why Imagines

Justin Foley|Not my fault

Warnings: Sexual Assault cursing obviously smut and Bryce being a cunt face.

When his mother was in one of her rages and he was scared from the house by the shattering of glass, he’d turned up at Bryce’s door. It’d been raining. Justin could picture what a sad, wet puppy he’d looked with his wet cheeks and shaking legs. He’d been so grateful when Bryce had let him stay in his pool house. What a good friend , Justin had thought.

Fuck you, he thinks now as he makes his way inside. There’s a blanket on the couch, which he knows Bryce had the maid leave out for him. He curls up under it even as he hates himself for it. Why does he keep crawling back here? Justin dreams of teddy bears ripped open to reveal nothing but rot and worms. He tries to sew it back together, but the scraps crumble to dust. His hands are stained black, and Justin can’t wipe them clean no matter what he does. He’s wiping then ripping and tearing then bleeding then-

He gasps awake only to find that the TV is glowing with Saturday morning cartoons. He hugs his chest, heart beating fast, as someone shifts next to him. Bryce is in nothing but sweatpants and a white wife beater. When he leans up to stretch, Justin can see his Calvin Klein boxers peeking through. 

“You were squirming and moaning a lot in your sleep, bro,” Bryce says and shoots him a smirk. “Sweet dreams?”

Justin weakly smiles back: “Heh, yeah. I’m gonna...gonna go shower, okay?”

The shower fails to soothe him. Justin scrubs hard, but he can’t seem to clean himself. Instead, he presses his forehead against the glass and closes his eyes. No, no...please don’t...  It’s Clay and those stupid tapes. He can’t get Jessica’s voice out of his head. Can’t stop himself from falling back inside that hallway. Regret tastes like bile, but Justin can’t throw up when his stomach is empty.

“Hungry?” Bryce voice has a special quality when he’s just speaking to Justin. It gets soft like he’s soothing some wounded animal, and Justin hates the sound. But what is he supposed to say? Don’t be nice to me?

The couch angrily squeaks as he sits back down next to Bryce. He eats the cereal and stares blankly at the TV while Spongebob hammers a nail into his forehead. Bryce texts and shifts next to him. Justin wants to leave, but he doesn't want to go home. When he finishes the cereal and Bryce slings a hand over his shoulder, he feels trapped.

“There’s a party tonight. Marcus says his parents will be gone the whole weekend, so…”

“I’ll pass.”

“I already invited Jessica-”

“You what ?” He snaps, jaw clenched.

“In the group chat. Chilll,” Bryce snorts and punches his shoulder. “You really need a smoke, huh? You’re, like, on edge."

Justin shoves him a little harder than is playful, but Bryce only smiles like he’s his bratty, little brother.

“You’re such an ass,” Justin mutters under his breathe like the coward that he is. He wants to slap away that smug smile. Instead, he unclenches his fists and obediently fetches the bag of weed from the drawer. He jumps back onto the couch, stiffening as Bryce possessively slings a hand over his shoulder.

Justin rolls up a blunt on his knee and jerks when Bryce takes it with his free hand. Bryce takes it with the self assurance of a boy who’s never been told ‘no.’ He takes it with the self assurance of a boy who knows he can get his way.

“What’s yours is mine,” Bryce happily hums his fucked up motto as he pulls his hand away for a moment to toy with the lighter. Then his body re-drapes itself over Justin's, and the heat makes Justin’s chest tighten. Bryce leans in and mockingly blows the smoke in his face. Bastard.