Bandom Double-Drabble: lest it come true
This one is for pushkin666. The pairing and warnings pretty much cover her prompts, so haven't included them specifically in the header info. Hope this is to your liking, babe...
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lest it come true - Bandom - Bob/Patrick - R - warnings: dark-fic, non-con
When Bob regains consciousness, he’s tied to the kitchen chair. Naked. There’s bitter chemical taste in his mouth and for three blessed seconds he has no idea what’s going on.
Then he sees Patrick, crouched in the corner, flipping a switch-blade between his strong fingers.
Bob wants to believe this is a prank, but knows with painful certainty that it’s not. Cold sweat springs over him in a nauseating rush. He swallows, the rope around his neck tightening with the movement.
“Wha- Patrick, what?” The words come out thick and slurred.
“I don’t like it when people think I’m weak.” Patrick gets up, voice mocking: “‘Patrick’s young, Patrick’s innocent. Poor ickle Patrick, he won’t understand.’”
Patrick crosses over and straddles his lap, jeans scraping over Bob’s unprotected groin.
And god help him, Bob’s getting hard. His body can’t tell the difference between Patrick, his friend - the one who sleeps on Bob’s couch, eats his cereal, and who Bob has wanted for-fucking-ever - and this stranger with Patrick’s face and a knife pressed against Bob’s.
Patrick leans closer, whispering: “But I do understand.” His hand wraps around Bob’s cock, wringing a helpless whimper out of him. “I know just what you need.”
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lest it come true - Bandom - Bob/Patrick - R - warnings: dark-fic, non-con
When Bob regains consciousness, he’s tied to the kitchen chair. Naked. There’s bitter chemical taste in his mouth and for three blessed seconds he has no idea what’s going on.
Then he sees Patrick, crouched in the corner, flipping a switch-blade between his strong fingers.
Bob wants to believe this is a prank, but knows with painful certainty that it’s not. Cold sweat springs over him in a nauseating rush. He swallows, the rope around his neck tightening with the movement.
“Wha- Patrick, what?” The words come out thick and slurred.
“I don’t like it when people think I’m weak.” Patrick gets up, voice mocking: “‘Patrick’s young, Patrick’s innocent. Poor ickle Patrick, he won’t understand.’”
Patrick crosses over and straddles his lap, jeans scraping over Bob’s unprotected groin.
And god help him, Bob’s getting hard. His body can’t tell the difference between Patrick, his friend - the one who sleeps on Bob’s couch, eats his cereal, and who Bob has wanted for-fucking-ever - and this stranger with Patrick’s face and a knife pressed against Bob’s.
Patrick leans closer, whispering: “But I do understand.” His hand wraps around Bob’s cock, wringing a helpless whimper out of him. “I know just what you need.”