Cameron #2
But somehow, that doesn’t feel right either. Everything is just fucking wrong.
And it’s so damn hot.
The floorboards creak again, closer this time.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. It’s one of those popcorn ceilings that slowly crumbles onto you as time passes and the house decays.
Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn sounds.
Sweat drips down the side of my face.
Images of Atticus flash through my mind.
With a huff, I sit up, deciding to check the thermostat even as I know it’s a guaranteed backhand from my mother in the morning.
Only as I sit up, the shadows of my room play tricks on my eyes.
In the far corner, tucked between one window and the hinges of my closed door, is a figure.
It’s tall and shrouded in darkness, but unmistakably human-shaped. Man-shaped.
A small chuckle leaves me at the sheer ridiculousness of this night. What, now I’m seeing ghosts? I must be having a heat stroke.
Scooting down my bed, my feet hit the carpet of my bedroom floor.
And then the shadow moves.
It’s a small movement, only a singular step forward, still covered in a thick shadow. But it moves.
I freeze, my hands gripping the full-sized mattress beneath me. This… this can’t be real, right? I’m genuinely hallucinating in this heat.
“Uh… hello?” I whisper, feeling only slightly stupid as I talk to shadows.
Nothing responds, obviously. As soon as the words leave me, I realize that even if it is a ghost, it most likely isn’t interested in talking.
As soon as I shift again, just an inch, the shadow takes another step.
I can see it a bit better now. It’s definitely man-shaped and looks to be a bit taller than me. If I’m hallucinating a man in my bedroom, he’d better be a hot one. Maybe then I could get over Atticus.
No… I won’t go there. Not right now; it’s far too soon.
I could take my chances and run for the door, looking mildly crazy if anyone sees me. Or I could scoot back onto my bed and hope that if this thing is real, all it wants is for me to stay put. It seems to only move when I do.
The latter seems like the safer option, so I use my palms and pull myself to the center of my bed, drawing my knees in.
It’s far too hot, or I’d hide under my blankets.
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by the scent of smoke.
And the shadow moves again. Closer. It becomes half-revealed in the moonlight, showing me a gray t-shirt and black joggers—very human-looking limbs—and straight brown hair just long enough to fall over a pair of hazel—
Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me.
Atticus fucking Chastain is standing in the corner of my bedroom. Like a damn creep.
Couldn’t he come talk to me like a normal person? And after calling me pathetic, now he shows up? I’m stuck between being incredibly relieved and absolutely peeved.
The latter wins.
“Are you serious?” I hiss, glaring at him as he fully reveals himself. “Why are you standing in the corner like a weirdo?”
Atticus says nothing, only peers back at me with that expressionless stare that he perfected so long ago.
And fuck, no one can deny he’s handsome. In fact, I’ve never seen a man quite as handsome as he is, which only infuriates me more.
“Not speaking?” I push. “Right. Of course. Why would you spare words for someone as lowly as me? Someone so pathetic.”
I roll my eyes, turning my gaze away from him.
Atticus takes another step forward.
“I’m not sure how you got in here without me knowing, but you have to leave. There’s a reason I never had you at my… never mind. Just go, Atticus.” I’m speaking, but he’s not registering the words, it seems.
Atticus takes another step toward me.
He appears to be sweating through his clothes, the same as I am, and his hair is slightly damp.
“Dude, go home,” I demand, scooting back until my back hits the headboard. He just keeps advancing. “Go back to the party. You’re genuinely creeping me out.”
As Atticus lays his knees on the edge of my bed, crawling toward me, I remember that everything feels… off.
In my excitement to be near him for the second time in one night—I am always so desperate to be around Atticus Chastain—I forgot how awful I feel and how weird the whole night has been since I arrived home.
“H-hey,” I stutter, my own voice softer now that he’s gotten so close. I can smell the familiar scent of mint and pine on him, but now it’s coated by something smoky. “Stop.”
Atticus doesn’t stop. He advances until my drawn knees are pressed to his stomach, and he’s peering down at me with emotionless eyes.
I have dreamt of being with him again so many times, even before tasting him again this very evening, but never like this. Never with this look on his face, or my head swimming the way it is.
And my knees…fuck, my skin breaks out in goosebumps. As if the mere touch of his flesh to mine through layers of fabric is enough to cool me off from the heat that surrounds us. As if he’s sick.
“Atticus.” I sound frightened. But there’s also longing in it, in that one word.
Like I want him to touch me again, even if it hurts.
And then, he finally speaks.
“Warm,” he purrs, but his voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s as if Atticus is speaking through two different microphones at once, all slightly distorted and just barely noticeably wrong.
“Uh, yeah. It’s pretty hot in here, so can you back up?” I want to push on his chest, but I’m afraid it’ll feel just as startlingly cold, or that I’ll like it too much and he’ll say something even meaner than he did before.
Atticus grins.
Something is wrong. Something is so fucking wrong, and I just can’t put my finger on it. I can’t see it through how badly I want him to be this close to me.
It feels almost as if Atticus isn’t the same man he was mere hours ago.
“You crave for it,” Atticus says, and it sounds almost as if he’s learning how to speak again for the first time. Like someone who’s speaking a language second to their own. “He craves for it, too.”
“H-he?” The word slips out of my mouth, startled and high-pitched.
Who the fuck is he talking about? Is he thinking of another man while pressing himself against me, on my bed?
Atticus closes his eyes, his head tilting back just slightly as a contented sigh falls from his lips.
“So, so good, corculum,” he coos. “Your lust is delicious.”
A small, embarrassing noise leaves me. This only seems to excite Atticus more, as his eyes shoot open, darting back to meet mine.
Only… those aren’t right. I know Atticus’s eyes. I’ve spent hours dreaming of them, looking into them, and reading them. I saw them just tonight; that hazel will live inside of me forever.
But this? It’s as if the black has swallowed up all of the color, leaving one big dot in the center of the white sclera.
“When two want it, it makes it that much stronger, yes?” Atticus asks, leaning in closer to me. The smell of smoke grows stronger. “He is inside, just as hungry as you, Cameron.”
When he says it, when Atticus says my name, it is the only word that doesn’t sound so distorted. That doesn’t sound wrong.
Almost as if, since he took it so many years ago, turning it into something he owns, he cannot manage to get it wrong. To say it any other way.
As he leans in, brushing his lips over my cheek, I shudder. His lips are freezing.
“Go,” I tell him, my voice steady but quiet. I never thought I’d be the one telling him to disappear, but here we are.
“You do not crave my leaving,” Atticus purrs. “You crave my touch. You crave my body.”
Then, his hand falls to the outside of my briefs, where he wraps his fingers around my half-hard shaft.
I gasp, my hips jerking against the mattress. But as I look closer, I realize that the tips of his fingers are… are they purple?
My eyes flicker up to meet his again, to watch Atticus as he pumps me in slow, loose pulls.
“Atticus,” I call softly, but he does not react.
Something is very, very wrong. And I think I get it now.
I wanted to stay in his presence so badly, so desperate to keep us going, and he was done. Completely done with me just early this evening.
So this… this is wrong.
“You will feed me well,” he says, grazing his lips over my cheek again.
A shuddering breath leaves me, and I don’t hesitate to speak. I can’t, not when it might be true.
“You’re… you’re not Atticus, are you?” I ask.
Slowly, Atticus lifts his head, revealing to me a wide, vicious smile. “Non, Cameron.”
And then his bare hand is shoved into my briefs and wrapped around my bare cock, causing me to cry out at the unexpected contact. At the cold.
It feels good. It feels really good. And this man looks so much like Atticus that if I pretend not to notice the little things, I can play make-believe, even though I’m pretty sure I know what non means.
It means he’s not Atticus Chastain, and I’m not sure how he’s borrowing his face. Or his body. Or if he’s even human at all. Because the real Atticus wouldn’t be here; he can’t stand the sight of me. The real Atticus wouldn’t be so cold to the touch.
“Venturus es pro me,” he whispers in that layered voice, his hand moving faster, gripping me tighter.
I have no idea what he’s saying, but I don’t have the will to fight him. Since that moment in the kitchen at Chastain Castle, I’ve been craving this. I’m going to come, and I’m going to do it while imagining Atticus is the one touching me.
I’m gasping and trembling as I stare at that familiar, handsome face. The one that looks so strange to me, even now.
“Veni nunc.”
With one last squeeze of his fingers, one harsh tug, I explode in his hands, shaking against the force of it as a low growl tumbles from his lips.
And then the entire room fades to black as I feel my body slump over.