Angry Johnny.
(prompt: the song Angry Johnny by Poe [lyrics] )
Johnny, angry Johnny, this is Jezebel in Hell
I wanna kill you, I wanna blow you… away
Molotov is like a coin flip in slow motion, unable to decide whether or not she wants to kill Brock, and he is the same, because he cannot decide whether or not he would mind. Every time they do this little dance, he dies some more inside, and he knows that there is only so much longer he can go before he is just a shell.
It has been twenty-three years, twenty-three long and painful years, and Brock knows it would be easier if he could just stop, if he could take back his heart and pretend she never existed, but it is impossible, because Molotov is like some slinking black panther, camouflaged in the dark recesses of his mind until she springs, unannounced, and attacks, all fists and blades and impatient bruising kisses, and then at the end of it, she is just as hidden as she was before.
He growls, yanks a dagger from his shoulder and stops thinking.
She catches the dagger when he throws it back at her, tossing it carelessly to the ground and then moving to grab him by the waistband, already tired of the fight. He may be turning into a shell but she is becoming a black hole, hungry and encompassing and so very tired of waiting for him to grow up and admit that he doesn’t just want sex, he wants her, because she knows he does and that he is just too thick-headed to take the necessary steps to get what he so desires.
Brock doesn’t know where they are; he thinks it is an old abandoned church, judging by the stained glass windows and the dust rising from the ground every time they move, but he doesn’t care, and drops them both to the floor, on the carpet between the sets of pews. Molotov reaches up and takes the back of his head in her hands, fingers curled in his hair, and stretches up to press her mouth roughly to his for several moments, and he doesn’t waste time while she kisses him, just pulls her clothing off savagely.
When he has her catsuit halfway off, around her hips, he realises that he can’t feel chains under it. Breath bated, he pulls away from her mouth to glance down, tugging the spandex a little further.
Pelvic bones. Bare pelvic bones.
“No way,” he says softly, unconsciously.
“Da,” she responds.
“You sure?”
“Do you want me to change my mind?”
Then everything is moving quickly, and he kisses her violently, tongue immediately pressing into her mouth as he finally, finally strips her naked, her clothes in a pile behind him. She wraps her legs around him and tears his shirt right off his chest as his hand snakes down to open his jeans, which she promptly pushes down with her feet.
Molotov bites down hard on his lip, groaning, as he thrusts into her, and he hopes he isn’t hurting her, but really he is too far gone to care that much. He moves one hand down, pushing her legs further apart, and her eye is squeezed shut but he can’t close his, viciously kissing her until she pulls her mouth away to arch her neck and swear loudly, panting. Brock is still for a moment inside her, giving her time, but she murmurs for more and he gladly gives it to her, grunting as her nails dig deeply in behind his shoulders, his pelvis slapping loudly against her thighs.
She is noisy and the dust that rises with every move is stinging his eyes, but he just curls his hand against the carpet, reaching back with the other to shove her leg up by the thigh, fingers pressing hard enough into her flesh to leave bruises. Molotov moans again, louder, and calls out his name, then rolls them over so that she is on top, leaning back as her hips roll in figure-eights.
Thrusting back against her, Brock reaches up to grab her breast, as she is too far away for him to take it into his mouth, his thumb roughly brushing over her nipple as he watches a single ray of sunlight come down through the face of an apostle in the window behind her, Brock can’t tell which one, but she is illuminated like some kind of angel, and he comes when she does, hot and pounding while her muscles flutter around him tightly, and she arches back, her hands moving behind her as she continues moving her hips.
And then, just when it is almost over, when Brock is lost completely in the strongest orgasm he has ever had, Molotov leans forward to look at him, her hand moving to press the barrel of her revolver between his eyes.
Judas.
“Da,” she says softly, and he is still coming when she pulls the trigger.
But either way
Either way, you know where it stands
I wanna kill you
I wanna blow you… away
Brock rockets up in a cold sweat, damp and scared, his stomach sticky with his own semen. When his eyes adjust to the dark and he realises it was just a dream, he looks to her eye for a second, then lays back down and hopes she will be there when he closes his eyes again.
Filed under: Brock/Molotov, Deathmance, NSFW, Venture Bros | Leave a Comment
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