Online and Anonymous - Part 2
Jun. 8th, 2012 09:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sunmontueRating: PG13
Word count: ~2,000/>75,000 words
Warnings: None.
Summary: By day Dave is a quiet attentive school student, but by night he's a smut-writing fanfic-writer who ships Johnlock. Kurt's never heard of fanfiction before Blaine tells him about it but he's about to be exposed to a whole new world.
PART ONE
He’s not sure what Blaine was talking about when he said it could get racy, because he hasn’t read anything more than a kiss, which is tame even for his tastes. He’s been reading for the last… three hours?! He frowns, he can’t believe he’s wasted that much time already. He wonders if he’s been searching in the wrong genre, but can’t think of racy falling under anything but romance, which is slightly misleading but he can deal with that. He looks at the rating box and it says K to T and it’s like a little light bulb goes off and he looks at the little drop-down arrow. He redoes the search, limiting it to the rating M and he’s chewing his lip. He can’t believe he’s doing this, feels like laughing hysterically at the urge to double check that his bedroom door is actually closed.
He reads the summaries and ignores the ones with spelling mistakes or bad grammar. If they can’t get one sentence right he’s not got much hope for the rest of the writing. He knows his original intent was to find some explanation for the huge cliff hanger that he’s been left on, but his curiosity is piqued, and… he licks his lips, other parts of him are interested as well, which he finds surprising, because he doesn’t like the idea of porn, but… reading something? It doesn’t seem as bad. Kind of likes it. It’s almost… intellectual. Kind of. And if his dad walked in right now he’d be startled, but there wouldn’t be a mad scramble to shut his laptop screen like there would be if he was watching actual porn.
The summery ‘Top!John, rimming, barebacking. Pretty much just gratuitous smut’ catches his eye and his breath catches. He swallows, mouth suddenly wet. That’s what the M was for then. More. Because this is definitely a step up from chaste kisses. He clicks and he’s pretty sure his hand is trembling. He reads, and he knows his mouth is open, needs quick shallow breaths. It’s written well. Not all flowery or all coarse either, it strikes the perfect balance and it’s just a very descriptive piece of writing about two guys who love each other having sex. Very hot sex. He can’t remember if actual sex got him this hot and bothered, he’s actually achingly hard inside his jeans, and he can’t believe that some simple words have had this effect.
When Blaine had said racy it had clearly been the understatement of the year, because this goes beyond racy, it’s mind-meltingly good. He’s never thought of himself as overly sexual before, and he knows Blaine hasn’t exactly helped him in that regard, through neither fault on either side, but… he’s starting to second guess himself. Maybe he is in fact very sexual and he’s just been approaching things the wrong way. He feels all hot, prickly and tight, and he knows he’s going to need a shower just so he can jerk off, except he kind of wants to do it while reading the fic again. He swallows. No. That would feel too much like porn. He needs to draw the line somewhere. He’s sure the author… HookedonHope. Right. Them. He’s sure they didn’t intend for gay teenage boys to jerk off while reading it.
He goes and checks his e-mail, trying to calm the blood pumping through his body and ignore the desire to read it again. It’s almost two in the morning, and he’s so tired. And horny. He clicks back to the fanfiction website. He’s going to clear his browser history, but he wants to remember this story. The author. He opens the notes on his phone and types in the username, although he knows he wouldn’t forget it anyway, it’s almost poetic. He changes for bed, determined to ignore the persistent heaviness in his groin. He is in control of his body, he refuses to believe otherwise. He curls up under his blankets and forces himself to fall asleep.
He wakes with an erection, and given his bedtime reading material and the fact he didn’t get himself off last night, despite his need to he’s just grateful he didn’t wake up already covered in come. Small mercies. He’s glad he doesn’t share a bedroom with Finn and that he’s directly opposite the bathroom. He gathers his towel and toiletries, the precious ones he’d never risk Finn accidentally using, and pressing the towel strategically to the front of his pants he walks to the bathroom.
It’s early on a Sunday morning, no one else is awake and out of bed yet, although he can smell coffee in the hall, so suspects either Carole or his dad has made coffee and taken it back to bed for a lazy lie in. He closes the bathroom door and locks it, jiggling the door handle to ensure it’s definitely locked. The last thing he needs is Finn bursting in. Usually his erection would have waned a bit, but he’s obviously been neglecting it, because if anything it feels even harder than before. He flicks the shower on and shimmies out of his pajama pants.
He steps into the shower and curls his fingers around his cock. He doesn’t think about much when he needs to jerk off. It’s usually nothing defined, gentle anonymous hands stroking his skin, little kisses, and when he was with Blaine he’d supplant Blaine’s face. He’s never fantasized, just touches, and will very rarely finger himself, the first time being out of curiosity and later because well, the orgasms were more intense. Now though, he has words running through his head, and images accompanying those words. Tongues lapping at holes, biting bruising kisses, fingers digging in to flesh, and running through hair. Sticky slick lube and the push-pull of penetration.
His fingers move faster, firmer and he leans back against the wall, needing the support. He’s not even imagining being touched himself, he’s just conjuring the images of two fictional characters having sex. God. Okay, so maybe he’s a little kinkier than he believed. He kind of gets a little thrill at the idea. He grips firmer and shoves his fist into his mouth, biting down on knuckles until it hurts and he feels the tightness in the pit of his stomach, pulling on all his nerve endings, then he’s coming with a muted cry, hand clasped over his mouth, breath coming in sharp harsh pants through his nose. He can’t ever remember coming that hard before, his legs are actually shaking.
He doesn’t move for a few minutes, still a bit in shock about the whole thing and the urge to laugh hysterically is still there at the edges. It’s kind of like discovering that chocolate exists after never knowing what it is and the taste just exploding on your tongue, except for him this is an entire body and mind experience. He knows now that before, when he was having sex with Blaine, his mind was clearly not in the game, because surely sex with someone you love is meant to feel better than what he just experienced by himself.
When he feels more stable he sets about his usual routine, washing and scrubbing, and his entire body is tingling with the afterglow. It feels fantastic, and well, now he’s starting to see what all the fuss is about. He gets out and pats himself dry, wrapping his hair and shrugging his bathrobe on before heading back to his room. It’s still quiet, which he’s thankful for, because he’s pretty sure that judging from his reflection in the mirror that anyone looking at him will know what he’s just been doing.
He turns his laptop on and then dresses. The urge to sit there wrapped in his robe is overwhelming, but he refuses to give in to it. Once he dressed though he decides to let his hair dry naturally, give it a break from styling products and the heat from the hairdryer. And the fact that he can get online thirty minutes faster is inconsequential. He enters in the URL and instantly enters the author’s name into the author search bar and is taken to a profile page. This author has written 37 stories for Sherlock. Holy shit. He’s read one of those stories. And that’s the effect it’s had. There’s no other information there, although the little icon picture is one of John and Sherlock kissing, which he knows has to be fake, although it looks pretty realistic.
He scans through the stories, and the one he’s got stuck in his head is an older piece of work. It also looks like there are several long multi-chaptered pieces, which he’d stayed away from because of time constraints last night, and there are also a couple that aren’t marked as complete but have update dates as recently as last night. They’re all marked as M and it sets his heart beating that little bit faster and he wants to read them all. He’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be planning to spend his entire day reading but he can’t bring himself to care. Thank god his homework is all done.
He sets about reading the oldest first and is drawn back in to the world of Sherlock. His stomach rumbling makes him look at the clock and he’s lost another four hours, although he doesn’t consider them wasted. This is bad. Now that he’s been reminded he’s starving, so he heads to the kitchen for some… brunch. He grabs a couple pieces of fruit, a cup of coffee, along with some toast and takes it back to his room. He normally eats at the table, but he’s left in the middle of a story and he really wants to know what happens.
His dad interrupts him about an hour later, but he can’t remember what either of them said. He’s engrossed in the drug trafficking murder-suspense story, where John’s been kidnapped and buried alive and Sherlock has twenty-four hours to find him. He goes to click on next and it’s not there. It’s the end of Season two all over again and he refreshes the screen just incase. Last night he’d only been looking at complete and relatively short stories, because he hadn’t intended to do this more than once, just to assuage his curiosity. Now… he wants to know what happens next. Needs to know what happens next.
His mouse cursor hovers over the Sign Up option and he clicks. He can’t believe he’s going to do this. He wracks his brain, trying to come up with a suitable username. He avoids using his own name, his age or birth year. He knows he needs to protect his privacy. He tries a whole bunch of variations. SongBird. LyricLover. WarblerNo9. They’re all taken and he wonders how many of the Dalton Academy Warblers read fanfic. He looks around his room, trying to find something innocuous he can use as a user name. As a joke he types in Fruitlover. Of course it works and he huffs in annoyance, of course it’s something stupid. Ah well, no one will know it’s him anyway. He goes through and favorites the author and all the stories, then alerts the stories and the author. He has no idea how this is all meant to work, but he doesn’t want to miss an update.
