Chapter Text
"Fuck off," he says.
Your eyebrows raise to your hairline. It was quiet enough so that no one else in the busy tavern heard, but firm. "Excuse me?"
He looks up, meets your eye for the first time. They're glazed, shadowed in deep bags under a strong brow. "Fuck off."
Of all the introductions you've made, the times you've brightly informed someone of your name, this is a first. You were beginning to think it was a town full of saints, everyone pleased to see you, smiling. This is a pull back to earth.
You stare back at him as he lifts his beer and takes a long drink, eyes on yours, waiting patiently as you struggle to form a reply. Annoyance bubbles in you, entitlement at his indifference. "Do you wanna try that again?" you snap, more than a little condescending.
"Okay." He takes a deep breath, hunched shoulders rising. "Fuck off and leave me alone."
You huff out a bitter laugh. "Much better. Thanks." He raises his beer slightly in acknowledgment and turns away from you.
You leave him there in the corner of the bar, sallow and lonely amongst the vibrant crowd. Fuck that guy, whoever he is. He didn't even tell you his fucking name.
"My love," Elliott croons, sweeping a hand back through luscious hair. "Might we venture out of the cabin tonight? I crave a respite from these stuffy walls."
You roll your eyes. You've been rolling your eyes a lot lately, here at Elliott's. If he weren't so disgustingly handsome, so patient and attentive in bed, you wouldn't be here. "What's wrong with the stuffy walls? That's where the bed is."
You drag a hand up his thigh, the fine hair soft under your touch. He's a natural redhead. His dick twitches but he catches your hand with his own, brings it to his chest.
"There is more to life than the abode."
You roll your eyes. Again. "Disagree."
He tuts, sitting up, pulling on his clothes. You remain naked in the bed, staring up at his body before he covers it. It takes him ages to do up all those buttons, you've got time. "Before we began our tryst. What would you be occupying this present night with?"
You shrug. "I dunno. Weed. TikTok." He frowns. You can tell he’s about to ask what that is. "Television," you correct.
He smiles as he begins to lace up his high-waisted pants. God, what a ridiculous man. "Let us fetch a drink! I am not above a cold ale to vanish my vexation."
"Great." Public? With this guy? What does he think you are? A couple? "You know…" You hesitate. As cynical as you are, you don’t actually want to hurt his feelings. He pauses, billowy shirt fluttering down across his torso. "We’re not a couple."
Hurt flashes briefly across his face before the smile returns. "Patience is a particularly apt virtue of mine," he muses, tucking in his shirt. "The path of true love never did run smooth."
"Okay. Well don’t say I didn’t warn you."
The saloon is quiet. Mostly the regulars and a few out-of-towners you don’t recognise. Penny’s mom is arguing with Gus about something over the bar. That guy who told you to fuck off is in the same place as always, tucked in the corner in a shadowy patch next to the fireplace. It’s the best seat in the house. Private. Warm. Right next to the taps. Resentment starts to rise but you push it down as you approach the bar with Elliott, slipping into a couple of bar stools.
Emily’s all pep as she greets you. "What’ll it be?"
You open your mouth to order but Elliott gets there first. "Barkeep! Your finest ale, and a wine for the lady."
Emily nods and turns to pour but you stop her. "No. What the fuck?" You look at Elliott. "Did you just order for me?"
"My love?" His brow crinkles. "What’s the matter?"
"When have you ever seen me drink wine?"
“Many times." He drops his voice. "You drank all of my red wine only last night."
"Okay, fair. But don’t fucking order for me, that’s so weird." You look back to Emily, who’s lingering awkwardly. "Give me something strong and sugary."
She cracks a smile. "I call that the Haley. Coming up."
"I apologise," Elliott murmurs, looking at you with solemn sincerity as Emily pours the drinks. "It was not my intention to offend."
"What was your intention?"
He shakes his head, looks disappointed in himself. "Chivalry, I suppose. A misguided attempt."
"Yeah." You soften a little. He means well. "Ask next time."
He takes your hand and kisses the back of it. You resist the urge to roll your eyes again. "It will be done."
He pays for the drinks — after asking permission — and you turn towards the back wall as you sip from the fizzy pink concoction Emily has given you. It's sweet as hell, with a strong kick. The Haley, indeed.
"I must visit the gentlemen's room," Elliott tells you, laying a hand gently on your back as he stands. "I shall return shortly."
"Knock yourself out."
He sweeps across the room towards the toilets. You rest your elbows on the bar and let the sigh out that you've been holding in, eyes turning to the heavens, letting your posture slump. He's a good guy. It's just hard to be around him.
You feel eyes on you and look back down, and to the right. That rude guy is looking at you out of the corner of his eyes. His expression is hard to read, half-hidden in profile, but there's the tip of a smirk.
"What?" you ask, a little loud, a little confrontational.
The smirk grows. "Nothing."
You narrow your eyes, maintaining the hostile eye contact as you knock back the rest of your drink. "Fuck off," you tell him, before turning away and ordering another from Emily.
Elliott takes longer in the bathroom than any man you've ever met. You have a theory that he brushes his entire head of hair every time he's out of sight. Another pink drink is served to you and you tip back half of it, the ball of annoyance in your stomach tightening, distracting, refusing to be drowned.
The guy isn't looking at you anymore, smirk faded, drink depleted.
"He's good in bed," you find yourself telling him. Embarrassment immediately tinges through you from the overshare.
He looks at you, surprised, amused. "What? Elliott?"
"Yeah." You feel sharply defensive of him, even though you yourself find him almost unbearable.
The guy smirks again. God, that's annoying. "I doubt that."
"He makes love to me," you insist, a smirk sliding onto your own face. He does, it's true. It's all emotional, feels like being fucked by a poem.
"Sounds fun."
"It is." You're struck by the random vulnerability of your words, retreating back inside yourself. "Anyway. Fuck off."
He just shrugs, then tips back the rest of his beer and order another.
Elliott returns from the bathroom in a pomegranate cloud, hair perfect and smooth. You have a few more drinks before tangling his leg with your own and whispering filthy things into his ear, making him flush. "You truly have your own brand of sonnet," he stammers, leaning away from you.
You take him back to the cabin, intending to action your words, to break this pattern of slow, passionate, meaningful sex. But when you hastily unlace his pants and your hand dives into his underwear, he steps backwards. "How about a song on the piano? Music can be the most divine foreplay."
You sigh, bone deep. "This isn't working out."
The next time you're at the saloon, it's a packed Friday night, seemingly everyone in town out to have a good time. Excellent. That was the plan. You're wearing your most humbly attractive outfit, demure enough to look the Mayor in the eye but one slight bend away from revealing an armful of cleavage, and you sit at the bar with a glass of whiskey and try to look hot.
That same guy is there, obviously. He never seems to leave. You're ignoring him. He's ignoring you. It works. At least you know he's there if you want someone to argue with. Whatever happens tonight, passion has to make its way out of you somehow.
Elliott's here, too. Nursing a wine in the corner. When his glass is empty, he approaches the bar and orders another, lingers awkwardly a good distance away from you as he waits. When he returns to his seat, you feel eyes on you again.
"What?" you ask, flat, frustrated, glaring at the guy in the corner.
There's a certain spark in his eyes, the usual glaze rubbed off for a moment. Amusement. "Nothing." He clears his throat. "Not that good, then."
You expect annoyance to bubble in you again but a laugh bursts it way out instead. "Guess not." You hesitate, lower your voice, leaning closer across the bar so he hears you. "Music can be foreplay."
He huffs a laugh from his nose, shakes his head. "Gross."
You stand, moving a few bar stools to the right, closing the distance between you until a few feet remain.
He looks sideways at you. Glares. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?"
"We're not hanging out."
"We kind of are. We're having a conversation."
"No we're not. Fuck off and leave me alone."
"We're literally having a conversation right now."
He hunches over, turns away from you, doesn't reply. It would be the easiest thing in the world to just let him curl in on himself, to give him the peace he wants, but that implies that you care what he wants.
"Who's single in this town?" you ask him, scanning around the room. "Apart from that blacksmith guy. Bad vibes."
He stays silent, face like thunder.
"What about those guys?" you ask, eyes travelling to the corner of the room with the pool table, the tall blonde guy and the goth kid. "They always seem to be together. Is that a thing?"
No response.
"I'll buy you a beer," you offer.
He looks up slowly. Stares at you as he thinks it over. "Make it a whiskey."
"Emily. Two whiskeys."
When she serves the drinks you attempt to clink your glass to his but he cringes away. "Eurgh."
"Jeez, sorry."
He swallows it all in a few gulps, throat moving under the coating of dark, slightly greying stubble. Then he looks over to the pool table. "I think they're both single."
"Nice."
"They're kids."
"Ew, no they're not. Sebastian's at least 23."
"Yeah. Kids."
You snort. "Okay, grandpa." You run your hands through your hair, fluffing it, detangling it. "Do I look hot?"
"No," he says without looking at you.
"Thanks," you reply with sincerity. "I appreciate that. Wish me luck."
"No."
"Aw, you're sweet. Okay, bye." You leave cash on the bar as you slip out of the stool and approach the pool table.
Sebastian is not what you would call an emotional fuck. He's definitely not making love to you.
It's more... distracted. Feels like his mind is always on something else. You've got his dick in your mouth and he's staring at the ceiling like it's front page news. No matter how many tricks you pull out, he can't seem to get off.
"It's not you," he says, as you sit naked on the edge of his bed, his black bedsheets still unstained from your attempts. "It's not."
"I never said it was."
"Well... good."
"Do you know what it is?"
He shakes his head. "I dunno. It feels good. I guess there's just something wrong with me."
"Do you manage okay on your own?"
"On my own?"
"When you jerk off, Sebastian."
"Oh. Yeah."
"Well. What do you think about?"
He chews on his lip, flushing it a dark pink. He's kinda sexy, with his pale skin against that shock of box-dyed black hair. That's what makes it so frustrating. "I don't really know," he says finally.
You sigh, pulling your clothes on. "Wanna smoke some weed?"
"Fresh out."
"Fuck. Drink then?"
You order wine this time. Sebastian gets a rum and Coke, and you chat about your new Solarian character's build as you order more rounds and slowly become drunker. His smiles become more frequent, sloppier, and it's cute. You keep it light, keep your teasing to flirtation, not wanting him to stress about earlier's sexual frustrations. He relaxes visibly, and you move closer, wrapping a leg around his, looking up at him in what you hope is a coy way as he talks about something indecipherable.
"Anyway, as soon as I get the raspberry pi set up I should be able to play any retro game I want—"
"Do you wanna go to the bathroom?"
You hear a low laugh, scoffed, from the corner. You raise your middle finger behind Sebastian's back.
He looks confused. "What?"
"Do you. Wanna go. To the bathroom?"
"I don't need to."
"I think you do." You let your intent become crystal clear, leaning in to kiss him, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth.
"Oh." He hesitates. "Okay."
"...You don't seem overly keen."
"No. Yeah." He nods. "Yeah. Let's go."
You follow Sebastian towards the bathroom, raising your middle finger again in corner guy's direction as you see him smirk in your periphery.
Whatever relaxation Sebastian achieved at the bar seems to have vanished, and he's tense under your touch as you push him against the locked door. He's hard, erection pushing against you through his jeans, but his lips move automatically against yours, measured and reciprocal. Your hands slide into each other's underwear, your blood pumping and skin hot with the buzz, and you stroke him as he rubs his fingers against your clit.
"Yeah," you breathe into his ear. "That's it. You make me so wet."
At your words, you feel his dick soften slightly. Immediately your ego is bruised and you pull away.
"Sorry," he says.
"It is me," you groan.
"It's not," he says quickly. "I've always had issues. With everyone." Then he thinks. "Well not..."
"What?"
He hesitates. "I'm not supposed to say."
"What, Sebastian?" Your frustration is clear, voice coming out harsh.
"Not with Sam," he blurts, and immediately looks guilty. "Fuck. I'm not — fuck. Don't tell anyone."
"You guys...?"
"It was one time."
"And you got off?"
He looks down. "Yeah."
You roll your eyes so hard they may as well fall out of your head. "Oh my god. You're fucking gay, Sebastian."
His face screws up in denial. "No..."
"Are you serious? You have issues with literally every girl but no issues with Sam? Uh, yeah, you're fucking gay, idiot."
He looks wounded. You take a deep breath. "Sorry. Sorry for yelling."
"It's okay." He zips up his pants, brow furrowed, hair spilling over his forehead. "I... I'm gonna go. I need to process this."
"Okay." You feel like an asshole, yelling his sexuality at him in a restroom. "If you wanna like... talk. You can talk to me."
He pulls his hood over his head, doesn't look you in the eye. "Sure. See you around."
You order an entire bottle of wine and sit two stools down from that fucking guy.
"I'm hot, right?" you ask him, pouring yourself a huge glass.
"Fuck off," he says.
"Yeah, I know." You sigh. "I'm not the issue. It's the men in this fucking town."
"What happened with Gerard Way?"
"Not gonna happen, that's what I'll say."
He grunts in a kind of condolence. "There's always his buddy."
"I fear it's the same issue." The saloon is almost empty. Even Pam has gone home, the clock past 11. It's just you and this guy and Gus cleaning glasses in the back room.
You scoot up one stool closer to him.
"Oh my god," he groans. "Stop."
"You started it," you protest. "Fucking judgmental asshole."
"I literally just looked at you."
"Yeah, like a judgmental asshole." You drink in silence for a while, finishing your glass of wine, and another, thoughts clouding with haze and doubt and endless frustration. "I just wanna get fucked," you say eventually. "Is that so much to ask? Huh? I thought that's what men wanted. Like, that's an oversimplification or whatever, blah blah blah, but come on. Why is it so fucking hard?"
You look at him with that last line, the question not rhetorical, gesturing with your wine as it sloshes about.
He thinks about it. You watch him raise his beer to his lips, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He stares at the bar. "There's safety in being gentle," he says slowly. "Most people like being safe."
He doesn't meet your eye but you stare at him, something suddenly turning in your gut, tightening, blood pumping. You haven't looked at him much, ever, preferring to spar verbally and peripherally. His hair is dark brown, almost black, but speckled grey, with stubble littered across his cheeks and down his neck. His eyebrows are thick, unkempt, the little hairs trailing off towards his hairline. The dark streaks under his eyes disguise dark lashes, those lashes some men have that make you envious. But his eyes are light. Maybe grey, maybe green, it's hard to tell. They look up at you and a thrill runs through you, hits you right between the legs.
"Stop fucking looking at me," he says.
You look away. "Sorry." You pour the last of the bottle into your glass. "What's your name?"
"Shane," he says.
You wait a few moments. "You don't wanna know mine?"
"I know your name."
For some reason that makes you feel kind of nervous, blood rushing into your cheeks. You finish off your wine and stand. "I'm going home." You grip onto the bar as you wobble on your feet. "Woah. I'm drunk."
"Are you..." He starts, then stops.
You stare, arms folded across your chest, expectant.
"Are you gonna get home okay?" he asks eventually, reluctantly.
"Fuck off," you say, smiling, grabbing your bag and heading out the door.
The interaction sticks in your head despite the hangover. You're walking through the square the next day and spot that tall doctor guy coming out of the clinic, and you strike up a conversation, walking next to him as he circles the town on his break. He stutters a little but you press forwards, touching his arm, asking for his number. He puts it in your phone under Dr Harvey. It's fun to make him blush, and easy, but you're thinking about those words. Most people like to be safe.
He's not wrong. You've been safe your whole life. The most daring thing you've ever done is break off your engagement and move here, to the middle of nowhere, with hopes of actually fucking feeling something for once. Nothing yet but frustration.
You text Harvey back and forth for a while in the evening. The conversation flows well when he's not tripping over his words. He seems soft, sweet, anxious, but you never know. Sometimes people like that are demons in the sack.
You ask if he wants to go to the saloon and he declines, says he has to get up early the next morning, but offers the evening following. You accept.
Turns out Dr Harvey's kind of a lightweight. Could have seen that coming. You thought getting a few drinks in him might help him loosen up but he's pink in the face, won't stop telling you how pretty you are. It was nice the first couple times but now it's getting mildly annoying. To be fair, you look great in that dress.
"I know," you tell him after the fifteenth time. "Now tell me some weird medical stories."
"You're so pretty," he slurs, smiling at you.
You look past him at Shane, who is obviously smirking. "He literally had three beers." He doesn't reply, just keeps that shit-eating smirk, sipping what must be his fifth or sixth beer.
"You smell good," Harvey tells you.
"Let's get you home," you sigh, getting to your feet.
You walk him to the clinic, supporting his weight, and he babbles apologies. "I was nervous," he says. "I should have stopped at one, I know I can't handle it."
"It's okay," you tell him as you plop him on his bed. "We can try again."
"We can?" He's looking up at you like a puppy dog.
"Yeah. I like the moustache."
He giggles, and it makes you smile. "Thanks," he says. "I grew it myself."
"Well, goodnight."
"Goodnight, beautiful."
You flip the light off as you leave. It's only 9 o'clock, so you head back to the saloon, sliding into the stool directly next to Shane.
"Why," he groans.
"Just shut up and be my friend, dickhead." You order two beers and give him one. "I put him to bed."
"Hot."
"I'm gonna have to move. I have to." You put your head in your hands. "I'm gonna get a reputation."
"For what?"
"I dunno. Sleeping around, or trying to."
"Who gives a shit?" He casts his eyes briefly around the room. "Small town. Everyone's got a reputation."
"Yeah? What's yours?"
"Being an asshole."
"That tracks."
"And a drunk."
"That too."
You lift your arms up over your head and backwards, stretching your shoulders. You swear you see him look at your body out of the corner of his eye before you hunch over the bar again. It makes you tingle slightly, makes you aware of yourself. You stare at something random in the distance and let him look, let him get a good eyeful of you, like you had of him a couple nights ago. After a few moments he turns away slightly and sips his beer.
"I can do it," he says.
You look sideways at him. He's facing forwards, lifts his bottle to his lips. You shift on the stool, turn towards him. "Huh?"
"You know what I mean."
"No I don't," you lie. "You have to tell me."
He rolls his eyes, then meets yours. Despite his cool, there's a pink tinge to his cheeks, though it could be the booze. "If you just want someone to fuck you. I can do it."
"I thought you weren't attracted to me?" you tease, trying to keep your own cool despite your rapidly increasing pulse.
"I never said that."
"You said I wasn't hot."
"I was being an asshole."
"Apology accepted."
"I'm not sorry."
You narrow your eyes at him. He narrows his back. There's tension now. You look back and forth between his eyes, suddenly becoming conscious of where your knee is brushing his thigh. Heat surges through you, but also nerves. You're confident, but only with the upper hand. Only when you know where you stand. Shane feels like uncharted territory. It's a little thrilling but a little terrifying too.
You know you should say something. Respond to his proposition. But you're frozen.
Most people like to be safe. Maybe you're most people, too.
He breaks eye contact, looks back at his drink as he finishes it. "Never mind," he says.
"What?" There's a twinge of panic to your voice that makes you flinch.
"Never mind. Offer revoked."
"How come?"
He shrugs. "You hesitated."
"Did not."
"You don't know what you want."
"Do too!" It's petulant, like you're stamping your foot on the ground as you say it. Embarrassment rises in you and you finish your beer and stand. "Fuck you," you say to him, and leave.
Harvey cooks you dinner the next night.
It's a little burnt but still good. He tells you he's out of practise, doesn't get a lot of time for this kind of thing, being a doctor and all. You compliment the food and wave away his apologies for the night before. "It was kind of endearing," you tell him. Not entirely true but not entirely false either, but it seems to put him at ease.
You both stick to water and the dinner goes well. He tells you the weird medical stories you were after and you giggle, even though he doesn't seem to think they're that funny even as he's telling them. He's quite handsome. His moustache is thick and well kept, his eyes warm, crinkling up at the sides when he smiles and laughs, which he does often. You could imagine falling for a guy like this, if you let yourself. Which you're not planning on.
When dinner is over and the plates are cleared, you move to the couch. He's stiff, sitting with his hands in his lap, facing forwards, so you hitch a knee up, getting as close to his side as you can, elbow over the back of the sofa as you run your fingers through his chocolatey hair.
"Thank you for dinner," you murmur.
He gulps. "You're welcome. Pierre told me the mushrooms were foraged from the wild. It's a good time of year for mushrooms." He's not looking at you, slowly growing pinker.
"Why are you nervous?" you ask, still stroking his hair.
He looks down at his hands. "Sorry. It's been a long time. I get in my head."
You smile, leaning closer to his ear, the hint of a five o'clock shadow brushing against your cheek. "Let's get you out of it," you say, and start kissing his neck.
He groans, low and reluctant, coming from deep in his chest. It fuels you, turns you on, and you keep going, darting your tongue out to lick his skin, sucking gently as you push your body into his. His breath is ragged, hand reaching out to grip your shirt in his fist.
"Is that good?" you whisper.
"Yeah," comes his hoarse reply.
You lean back, climb across his lap until you're straddling him. Sitting up, you look at him, his flushed face, mussed up hair, expression like a deer in headlights. You take off his glasses gently and lay them on the sofa beside you, and pitch your hips forwards. His guttural moan is your reward, cock straining against his slacks. You reach down for the zipper.
His hand catches your wrist. "Stop."
You look up at him. He looks sad. "You okay?" you ask.
"I..." He can't meet your eye. "I can't. I'm sorry."
You climb off him carefully, hand him back his glasses. Disappointment is pumping through you but there's a gentle concern there, too. "What's up?"
"I'm not ready. I lost... I lost someone." He takes another deep breath, emotional. "I'm not ready. I'm sorry."
"It's okay." You pat his hand awkwardly. "I was only gonna use you for your body, anyway."
He huffs a small laugh. "Well, that's... comforting." He shakes his head, puts his glasses back on and looks at you. "You don't have to go."
"It's fine." You stand, already forming a plan in your mind. "I need a drink, anyway."
He's there, of course.
You sit at the bar, leaving a stool between you. "Gimme the Haley," you tell Emily. "Two, actually."
"Someone's in for a fun night," she says with a wink as she hands them to you, before walking off to serve someone else.
You sit in silence, drinking one glass of the fizzy pink concoction, then the other. He’s on the beer next to you, an empty plate of pepper poppers and a handful of bottles scattered around him like debris.
When you’re done with both your drinks, heat swelling in you, nerves tamped down for now, you turn to him. "I know what I want."
A smirk slides onto his face and he slowly turns, spinning on the stool, elbow resting on the bar. "Mm?"
"Yeah."
He waits a few moments. "And?"
"And what?"
"What is it?"
You flush. "Don’t make me say it."
He rolls his eyes, starts to turn away again.
"Fine." You scoot closer, moving stools. Your knees knock against his, bare skin touching. He’s wearing cargo shorts. God. You’re really about to embarrass yourself for a guy wearing cargo shorts.
You lean in closer, hair slipping over your shoulder and onto his. He smells like beer and hot sauce, his hoodie a little ripe. "I want you to fuck me."
His smirk is almost proud, gloating. Condescending prick. "Can you be more specific?" he asks, casual.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, there’s lots of different ways to have sex, you see."
You shove him. "Fuck off."
He just raises his eyebrows so you sigh. It feels like an exercise in humiliation, in power, testing how much you want him.
"Okay. I want you to fuck me. Not make love to me. Fuck me. I…" You shake your head. "I don’t know why. That’s for me to examine in therapy at a later date. But I want to be… taken." You can’t meet his eye. "There. Is that sufficient?"
His gaze is half-lidded. You’re pretty sure he’s looking down your top. "Do you want to go to the bathroom?"
Your breath hitches as you meet his eye. "Right now?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
He tips back the rest of his beer, and you watch his throat, watch him smear the back of his hand across his mouth. He’s kind of a slob. It shouldn’t be so hot.
"Come on," he says, and stands, walking off. You take a deep breath and follow him into the restroom.
It’s a small room, about eight feet squared, with dull fluorescent lighting. Standing opposite Shane, you realise you’ve never seen him upright before. You’re about the same height. You open your mouth to comment on it but suddenly his hands are on your waist, body against yours as he pushes you back against the sink.
"Fuck," you gasp, out of sheer surprise. The sink juts into you painfully as he ruts his hips against yours, grabbing your ass and pulling you against him as his erection grows. His movements are frantic, grip tight on your skin.
With both hands on your hips he flips you around so you’re bending forwards against the sink, and starts unbuckling his belt with one hand. The other slides between your legs under your dress, the nice dress you picked for your date with Harvey, and his fingers slip past your underwear as he pushes them inside you. You choke out a moan — they slide inside easily, wet from the moment you sat down at the bar.
He laughs. Low and filthy. "God. You’re desperate."
Annoyance fires in you but is forgotten when he curls his fingers towards himself, deliciously hard, pushing into the soft muscle as he pulls out his dick. He strokes himself a few times, brushing the tip against your ass, glazing you slightly in pre-cum. Then he pulls his fingers from you and kicks your legs open wider, pulling aside your underwear to line himself up with your entrance.
"Condom," you blurt.
He moves your hair so he can press his face to your ear. "I’m tested," he breathes. Then he bends you over the sink and pushes his cock inside you raw.
Any objections you had die in your throat, dissolving into the long moan that forces its way out of you, loud and dirty and ragged but quickly cut off by his hand covering your mouth. "Ssh." He moves his dick back and forth slightly, teasing deep inside, and you whimper against his hand as your walls tighten around him. "You're gonna be quiet for me. Okay?"
You nod.
He takes his hand off your mouth and moves it to your throat, squeezing oh-so-gently at the sides of your neck. "Say it."
"Okay," you whisper.
"Good girl." You can hear the smirk in it.
He pulls back with his hips and starts slamming into you, one hand still on your throat, the other on your ass, thumb hooked under your ass cheek, spreading you wider. It's hard, fast, raw in more ways than one, his cock hard and throbbing as it carves you open, hands strong and assertive as they hold you still. Pleasure fumbles through you, your mouth open in a silent moan, hands bracing yourself against the wall.
"God," you can't help but groan. Your whole body pulses with the heat of it, the sheer relief of finally getting what you want, and getting it good.
"Yeah, you like that, don't you." The words come out harsh and a little mocking. He pushes you harder into the sink, moves the hand on your throat into your hair to grab a fistful and squeeze while pushing your head down. Pain shoots across your scalp. "You like it rough. You need it rough, you little whore."
The word would have you swinging in any other context but he's right. You asked him for it. Practically begged for it. The vulgarity of it, it feels honest. This is what you've been craving. To be consumed.
His breath is loud and fast behind you, panting as he thrusts into you relentlessly, and he doesn't break the rhythm as he pulls back his hand to slap your ass, hard. You choke out a cry at the pain and he squeezes your hair harder, bringing tears to your eyes. "Shut the fuck up." He spanks you again, your body overstimulated and swollen with sensation. It feels so fucking good, his dick getting you close, the pain heightening it all. You take one hand off the wall and attempt to slide it down towards your clit, almost there if only you could just —
He grabs your hand and pins it against the wall. You whine in protest but he ignores you, leaning back a little, using both hands to spread your reddening ass cheeks to fuck you as deep as possible. The sound of it is graphic — the slap of skin on skin as his hips hit your ass, the indecent squelch of your pussy sucking him in, his laboured breath and your own swallowed moans. You squeeze your walls around him. "Fuck," he curses under his breath. You commit the sound to memory, the small vulnerability of it, the tiny admission that he likes it, too.
He leans over your back to murmur in your ear. "You want my cum?"
You nod frantically. "Yeah."
His breath plays on your ear, hot and loud. You can hear every hitch, every gasp, as his dick swells inside you. "Beg for it. Dirty little slut. Beg for my cum."
"Please — God, please. Give it to me. I want it. Please."
His grip on your ass tightens, hard enough to bruise, and he pounds into you once, twice more, then he's cumming inside you, moaning quietly into your ear, still thrusting in and out of you but softer now, slower, dick twitching as he rides it out. You moan softly too, at the thought of his cum inside you, the risk of it, the filth, the shame. He breathes heavily against you for a few moments, before sliding out unceremoniously. His cum immediately starts dripping down your leg.
You turn, catch him zipping himself up without bothering to clean up. You're speechless, just staring, can't think of anything to say as he does up his belt.
Your eyes meet. His face is flushed, pupils a little blown, but other than that you'd never know anything had happened. His expression is the same slightly hostile, slightly distant one that he always seems to have.
"You should probably get some Plan B or something," he says. Then he turns to leave.
"Wait," you say. He stops. Annoyance peeks through. "You're not gonna finish me off?"
"Fuck off." He unlocks the door and slips out, leaving it open.
You rush to close it, locking it behind him, sliding down into a squat against it. Blood rushes in your ears. Your pussy throbs and aches, your ass burns. Finally. You fucking feel something.
His cum is still leaking out of you. You reach down and coat your fingers in it, basking in it, before bringing your fingers to your clit. You rub yourself in small circles, slick with his cum, playing back the encounter in your head, feeling his breath on your ear, his possessive hands on your ass. It doesn't take long to get yourself off.