Joy of Loathing

BY : Michaelis Kristiansen
Category: +G to L > Hunter x Hunter
Dragon prints: 403
Disclaimer: I do not own Hunter x Hunter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

The door’s ghastly clicking behind him may as well have been a slam for as much as he was feeling. Throat dry, Pariston began to wrestle with his necktie, looking down at his own shaking fingers with disbelief. That trademark smile wasn’t leaving his lips, even though he was now in private, nobody to put on his shit show of shallow, surface non-feelings for.

“He told me ‘no’.” He said it to nobody, not even himself. Even though the words left his lips, he didn’t hear them, his heartbeat pulsing too heavily in his ears. Was it anger, or was it just the pills? Well, no, it certainly couldn’t be anger. He didn’t get angry, after all.

He could hear the conversation in his head as he reached down to pull off his parade shiny shoes.

“Ging, where are you going? To see your son?”

“No- I told you, it’s fine. He’s fine.”

“Ahh, then, perhaps-”

Ging hadn’t even let him finish.

“You think I want to go anywhere with you?”

There wasn’t even anything particularly offensive in the words. Ging was capable of saying worse, and he certainly had said worse to him, not only in the past, but the present. But today, it’d caught Pariston off guard. He’d not shown it. He’d merely smiled wider, so wide that his face may crack, and he nodded with a titter and a laugh. Even he couldn’t say why he was reacting this way. It was in his nature to push people to hate him. To call it Schadenfreude was the most vast understatement possible. He’d wanted Ging’s company tonight, if only to hear the scraggly derelict of a man degrade him, but Ging had dashed that away, saying that simple thing before leaving, as if this were a done deal.

As the shoe came off, Pariston saw a flash of pale flesh. One finger wriggled down to investigate. His silk sock had a hole inside. Penetrating it with his fingertip, he let out a sound hybridized between a laugh and a wail. Of course. Of course, this happened.

“New pair, too. Can’t always judge quality by appearance, can you?” The words slurred and even he could hear it. He approached the hotel bed and sat down on it, before casting aside his suit coat, his tie; the fabric sparkled under the low mood lighting. He tried to ignore the pulsing in his trousers as he reached into the minibar; normally, he’d be a bit picky, but today, he grabbed the first thing his fingers laid onto.

The lid popped open, and he wrestled out of his pocket a few more pills. One was blue and rounded, and the other, oblong and white with no coating. A bit of lint stuck to it from it crushing a bit in his pocket. Popped into his mouth, he used a mouthful of the booze to wash them down, swallowing the awful, burning soup with one audible gulp.

He had no idea what they were. “Meteor City Special”, he’d been told by the youth he’d procured them from. A grab bag- what happens, happens. The uncertainty made his spine tremble.

The dexterity was leaving his fingers as he went for his pants. Opening the button fly of his suit deemed harder that closing it had been. Partway through, he remembered his shirt was still on, and went for it instead. The skinny blonde man was soon collapsed back on the bed with his undershirt half draped on him, half off, and his pants about his knees. The room swirled as if it were a bowl and somebody had just spun it. He, however, was stationary.

“He said 'no’.” He said it again, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. Every taste bud was palpable, sliding over the roof of his mouth. “He must hate me. He must truly hate me.”

Pariston laughed as he scoot back across the bed, scooting because he felt heavy, unable to sit up or walk properly. He sat against the headboard for support, and gripped his prick in his hand. He stayed still like this a moment, unsure how he’d gotten there.

A large metal object was shoved down into his prick. He squeezed the shaft, and hissed through his teeth. It hurt; it hurt deep inside, so severely that lights flashed before his eyes. With his power and money, he could get a proper piece made, he knew- something like a crown to clip around his cock head, to push the foreskin back, something to slide into his pisshole that would fit properly- but there was something satisfying about this. It took a few moments to grip the end of the object, and he pulled out out, slowly. The deep, intimate pain stirred his insides; he made an inelegant sound, a wet, raw gag. Those pills must be hard on the belly.

Out came the cufflink. The pin at the end was spotted in blood; it was caked in rough, black clots from repeated use this way. He licked at his lips as he looked down at it. A thrill went through him at the idea of then using it for its proper use later.

Nobody would know. The compliments he’d get, he was sure, while it was tucked in his sleeve-

It slipped from his lips with boyish glee, and he fumbled his prick about in his palm. Pariston wasn’t even sure if he was masturbating. He was simply batting it about with no sense, reveling in the pain splitting down his spine, electrifying every extremity. “With how he’s been acting lately, even I’m a bit annoyed, I may-”

No. He cut himself off from that. Freezing in place, prick in his hand, he swallowed the nothing in his mouth. Silence hung over him. It wasn’t right. That thought was horrible, terrible, and panic inducing.

He couldn’t hate anyone, could he?

The bottle of liquor was halfway swallowed before he even tasted that it was brandy. He looked at the label and twitched his lips. The liquid that had missed his maw drooled inelegantly down his face.

He’d wanted to fuck him again. Ging was the sort of person who liked that sort of thing, the homeless, roustabout sort of man who had dozens, if not hundreds, of ridiculous flings. Ging had a child with no mother- not that he would ever judge, no- so that showed something, right? He wasn’t factoring in the awkward, awful, wonderful sex they’d had in the past.

He’d brought lubrication, and amply oiled one finger, and he slid it into his tightly puckered hole. He chuckled; he knew what people said about him, and he’d often heard comments about him always having something in his ass. How gauche! If that were the case, it wouldn’t be so hard to work open, would it?

Pariston’s ass stung at the penetration, despite the liquid. He didn’t stop, though, hilting himself to the knuckle. His fingers wrapped about his prick and he began to pull it, now with certainty. He masturbated, but to call it that was oversimplifying the complexity of the situation.

Vision going fuzzy, everything felt enhanced. Whatever it was, that stuff was kicking in. He was overstimulated just by his own hand. The slight slipping of the foreskin over the head thundered in his ears. A steady drumbeat filled his head, pulsing, pounding, and Pariston was only half aware it was his heartbeat.

His heart wouldn’t take much more of this. He probably should stop. It was easier said than done. Pariston had an addition, but that addiction was not the obvious. He could, theoretically, give up the capsules, give up the drink, and never look at them again.

Pariston gasped. His voice shook. His ankles planted themselves haphazardly in the bed. They couldn’t spread as far as he needed them to, due to his pants still being halfway around them like a drunkard, but he made it work. His shoulders pressed against the headboard and his skull ground against it so severely that he thought his head might pop. Swirling his finger around in his ass, he managed to work a second finger in, and it made him groan, but it wasn’t good enough. He wanted the real thing.

That dirty, greasy, low-class wretch of a man rubbing skin-to-skin with him, it made him gag, literally. The thought made some bile burn the back of his throat, but a swallow kept it in as his bucking became more sporadic. He knew that Ging must be worried with his son in the hospital, despite any coldness he showed. He wouldn’t shun him that much.

It would be just terrible if Gon died, wouldn’t it?

His spine crooked and twisted into an unnatural position as that thought became the only thing to fill his mind. Pariston came crashing down, one should in the bed, one off. Both feet were planted to the mattress, and his spine was near perpendicular with it. His fingers pumped faster, and the movement of his hand on his cock became quicker, quicker, quicker.

This must be what love feels like.

Pariston’s muscles went tight all at once. It hurt. A charlie horse rang in both legs, and for a second, his eyes went blind. Watering, his vision wavered back into place, and he slid down to the bed, panting for breath.

Damn it. Not again.

It was a common side effect of different drugs, a delay in orgasm. He actually liked it, in a way. Denying himself pleasure gave him something he couldn’t quite describe. It was nicer than the actual orgasm in many ways.

His sharp eyes glanced to the drawer at the side of the bed. Opening it, he fished out the toy he’d brought with him. It was just a cheap little disposable thing. A simple, pearl pink bullet vibrator. It wouldn’t last past the night, but that’s all he needed it for. Wetting it down, he pressed it against his softened ass, and sighed as it went inside. With a spin of the dial, it kicked on, and with it, he howled. His long toes curled against the bed, unable to grip it through the slipperiness of his socks. One hand gripped his hard cock again and he pulled it with renewed vigour. The other hand pressed against his balls, and he pushed down on them. Working them, he acted more as if he were kneading dough than playing with a very sensitive part.

This rush came quicker. The way it gripped him, Pariston felt as if he were being lifted off the bed, dangled high above it. His belly ached and his muscles were sore like he’d ran a marathon, and he sank his fingernails into his cock. They left half-moon marks down the pale, vein covered surface, and he bit his lip to hide the wail.

He dropped like a stone. Though he didn’t really move, his head rushed, and his body sank. Once again, the orgasm was ripped from his hands before it even arrived.

Instead, he bore down. It took a moment. He wasn’t used to doing this while hard. If he couldn’t spurt, this would have to do.

Despite all he’d drank, there was little liquid in him. Split into two small streams by his erection, his piss shot out with the pressure of a fire hose. As it flowed, he tugged his prick, milking it in his pastiche of coming. It burned like fire from the scrapes in his urethra. That nausea hit him again, rocking his gut.

As soon as it began, it was over. Momentary as it was, he was left soaked in heavily scented liquid that darkened and stained the baby blue of his shirt. It was pockmarked in red through the yellow; with disgust, he lifted the fabric to his face and sniffed it, pretending he had no idea what he’d done. The vibrator in his ass droned on, mostly silenced by his body, but audible in the quiet, empty room.

His smile faded. He laid back, and he stared at the ceiling.

Still hard, half dressed, soaked in his own piss. His whole body ached. His prick burned and his ass was so empty. When he turned his head, the room danced about him, and Pariston had to shut his eyes tight to keep the overwhelming wave of dizziness from knocking him out.

When they opened, he stared at the clock. It was only a bit after 8:30.

“Far too early in the night to be lonely.” As he sat up in bed, he winced. Alone, he could admit, to himself, how much his stomach ached.

Quickly, he cleaned up. A new suit, more garish than the last, clad his body, but not before he’d taped the control box of the bullet to his thigh. He fixed his golden hair, and haphazardly, he filled his pocket with condoms and a bottle of lubrication. The smile was back to his face.

Pariston would just have to go see Ging and change his mind. He was suffering right now! The election must be ravaging him, and his only son was in terminal care. Ging really shouldn’t be alone.

Luckily, he knew that he had no problems in changing Ging’s mind, once he’d devised a strategy.

It was nights like this, though, that made Pariston wonder if he wasn’t as smart as he knew he was.



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