Disclaim: In this case, I own nada.
Author's Note: Flames are welcome. This probably deserves the 'R' rating, but who gives a fuck. Read with extreme caution because it is extremely slash-y. Unless you get off on shit like that, then have at 'er. This is dedicated to my dear friend Jen because I promised her something hot and steamy, and she requested the pairing. So here's to that. And if you find any mistakes, don't be afraid to point them out. Lord knows I don't catch them all.
Usually you have a window of 24 hours before your conscience has you going through the process of a bloody self-destruction. But his tongue is caught between your teeth, and this all so don't-think-just-do that you almost can't wrap your head around it. And you know he's taking advantage of your blood-to-alcohol ratio, and that's exactly why you don't tell him to stop. Even though you know you're going to wake up tomorrow, stuck to him and dirty linen, feeling every bit as worthless as he thinks you are.
To him you're convenient. Easily accessible when he's too impatient and too far from Kathy's. You know he'd choose her over you in a heartbeat if he had to, and sometimes you wish he would. But then there are nights like this, just you and him, and they make everything seem oh-so worth it. The nights he nips at your jaw and whispers nothing but filth in your ear make you think that maybe—maybe—you're a little bit more important than these meaningless fucks at 4 a.m. Your heart races and you swear that if he kept at it long enough, you could cum hard as ever without him ever having to lay a hand on you.
You've never met anyone who could do that to you. There's something in the way his voice lowers as he growls your name that makes your head spin and your lungs hitch together. It doesn't matter how long it's been since the last time you saw him; you've decided that he'll always sound the same. And he still makes your knees weak, and you still imagine yourself writhing under him, and you still beg him to make the tightness in your stomach leave. Because he's such a gentleman, he never says no.
Maybe that's him showing you his last bit of humanity. He can't live with the fact that he was your first, just like you can't live with how, even though he's out fucking someone else, he constantly comes crawling back to you. Because you're twice as good of a lay as any broad he'll ever get his hands on. It might be the only reason he refuses to let you go, but you'll take it just the same. Something is better than nothing.
Too bad this something only happens when he thinks you won't remember. Makes damn sure you're right sauced before he even considers touching you. He's afraid you'll remember how his hands feel. Pulling, grabbing, desperate to have more and find a center of gravity. So you drink more than you can tolerate, while he watches, staying stone cold sober.
The first time you slept with him, he was joking about your hair color and throwing around cheesy pick-up lines he must've known were going to work. He baited you along, and you let him follow you upstairs. All you could think about was how you should've been with the girl trying to serve you more than just drinks instead of the greasy bastard hiding his intentions in the folds of black leather. You figured out where you're going when you die, and at the time it didn't really matter. God didn't exist and there was no such thing as sin.
But now that he's slowly stripping you down to nothing, you're suffocating under righteousness and God's written word. He has you pressed into a corner upstairs at Buck's, making you sweat against all the layers of fabric he has yet to take off. It's closing in on 3 in the a.m., and while the only thing awake is Buck's old tabby cat, the possibility of being caught is so real that it's nauseating. But heavy sleepers and thick walls are as good of a cover as either of you are going to get.
He just couldn't have waited. Another ten or so feet and you could've had a bed under you. And you would've stopped him long enough to take the eleven or so steps, but one thing started leading into another, and he had his hands down the front of your pants before you could even grasp the concept of taking your clothes off. Then he was biting at your ear and telling you to fucking beg for it, and you did. You still are.
Now you're left to touch him, if you can figure out how. He's teasing you with barely-there touches and not-quite strokes. Every time you move to open his jeans, he swats your hands away and makes you grind out emasculating sounds against his neck. You can't even push your hands up under his shirt. God forbid you want to feel the way his skin burns under you. You can feel him straining against his denim, and if he wants to stay constricted under all that hot material, that's his own damn fault. But you don't have the patience he does; you want it, and you want it now.
He runs the back of his tongue over your collarbone, and that just makes you want him more. Especially when he wraps your hand around your own cock and guides it through a series of lucid motions. Your eyelids flutter as he presses his forehead to your cheek, and you can tell from the angle that he's watching you jack yourself off. His breath is hot and sweet with mint, and you can't help but cry out and scratch at the wall when he makes you tug on yourself a certain way.
You don't even register where his other hand is until you feel it creeping down the back of your thigh. He starts grazing his teeth against your jaw, and his name just oozes off the end of your tongue. It's needy and disgusting, and you shudder so hard you almost send the side of your fist through the wall.
Gritting your teeth together, you feel his fingers slit around your wrists and pin them to the wallpaper. You know that he's going to bruise them, but you struggle anyways. He holds you down with his hips and his chest, grinding against you so deliberately that you almost spit at him for it while he looks at you through hazy eyes and breathes slowly. It might be the most attention he's paid to you all night, and you hate it. You try and pry yourself from his grip, but he slams you back in place so fast that you're winded. And before you can even breathe again, you're begging him to let you finish. You don't care how you do it; you just want it done.
But he doesn't budge except to press his nose against your ear and tell you to ask him nicely. You tell him there's no way in hell, but he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, and you almost cum right then and there. And then he's begging you to beg him, whispering so many contemptible hymns that it's harder to say yes than it is to say no. But then he starts giving you all these depraved details, telling you about how he's going to make you scream, and you break down with a please, please, please, Two-Bit, letting your voice crack over the first syllable of his name. The echo is slurred, and as he loosens his grip enough for you to slide your wrists free, you realize that you might not remember any of this.
Lately he's been leaving you alone to wake up by yourself. Confusion and anxiety build and build, thinking you've been left in some John's bed down in the red light district until you have the sense take in where you are. And you go on with life, hating him and convincing yourself that it won't happen again. You won't let him get away next time, but next time rolls around, and the cycle keeps on repeating because you like playing the victim. You give him all of this control and let him do whatever the hell he wants with you since there's no telling what he might do if he can't. He's so fucking annoying when he doesn't get his way.
And you could get yours if your hands would stop fumbling over his button. He drags his nails over your stomach when you finally push all that fabric over his hips.
Everything moves so quickly after that. He slicks himself, and you wrap your legs around his waist. The way he just slides in almost makes you scream, and you dig your fingers into his shoulder blades. All you can do is hiss and stretch your torso against the wall as his teeth find the base of your neck. You fist your hands in his hair, letting out a gasp when he moves. Hits something that makes you shudder instantly, and then he snickers and ghosts his thumb over the tip of your cock.
It's the simplest of touches, but it fills you with something you can't explain. A mix of regret and disgust and, Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell are you doing? What he does to you makes you sick.
Everything does. Especially when he comes to you smelling like that girlfriend of his. There must be something wrong with his wiring because he's actually okay with this. To some degree you suppose you are too, but you know that when he closes his eyes at night, he isn't thinking about you. The guilt doesn't sit in his organs and rot him from the inside out like it does to you. And that's why you haven't slept with Evie in almost six months. You never have been able to stand the idea of kissing her with the same lips you use to coat his digits when he decides a quick finger-fuck can replace what you crave most. It just wouldn't be right. What right do you have to subject her to the eternal damnation you've brought upon yourself?
There was a time when you believed in a god, but then you met Two-Bit. He showed you things you'd only been able to think about in the privacy of your own room, with your hand on your dick and a few crumpled tissues to clean up the mess. After a while, you started catching on to the fact that every single one of your delusional little fantasies ended with his face in your mind's eye.
You've stopped trying to rid yourself of him, coming to terms with knowing he's just another ne'er-do-well in every sense of the word. And you take solace in knowing that this won't last. That you can't continue on like this forever because sooner or later you're going to grow up. He doesn't even mean anything to you, yet the idea of letting go of all this sweet nothing there is between the two of you scares you. Because you don't know what comes after this, if there is anything. This could be all you have. But even so, if you really tried hard enough, you wouldn't have qualms with bringing everything to a halt. And an abrupt one at that.
As confident as you are, you still aren't sure. He breathes your name in your ear because he knows you aren't paying attention to him, and just like that you're caught up in this whirlwind of him. His smell, and his voice, and his skin, and his teeth. And the grunts coming from you-don't-know-where that have you thinking about how you think too much. He's been in your head since day one.
Pressing your face into the crook of his neck, you scream, just like he promised. While he's tugging and squeezing on you, and your sanity and self-control are being eaten away by the amount of friction he's causing. But you still have the sense to be utterly disgusted with how easy you are. He shifts his hips, and you scream again, losing yourself in a mess of clenched muscles and the tugging and pulling on all these sacred parts of you. And obviously he doesn't care if you wake up half the roadhouse, because he slams into you so hard you stop breathing and hit your head against the wall. Your eyes squeeze shut, and then he does something that just drives you.
It's all white vision and writhing from there on. You're locked around him so tightly he can hardly move, and you can feel yourself spill all over your lower stomach and thighs and his hand that he doesn't move right away. Not until he's sure you have nothing left to give him, and there's nothing left you can take from him, either. You just lean back and stare at him, and he goes on licking your sperm off his hand before he kisses you.
He knows you hate the taste. You would punch him in the shoulder, but you suck it off his tongue instead and swallow. Your arms hang off his shoulders, face pressed into his neck, swimming through the smell of his cologne and cigarettes and…you. All caught in his clothes, and you laugh because it's almost ironic how easily he'll be able to get rid of you. A fucking wash cycle, and it'll be like this never happened. Even though you'll keep thinking about it, waiting and waiting until next time. When you let him leave you to yourself. He's always fucking leaving something.
"I have to go." His chin is on the top of your head, and he's stroking the outside of your leg.
"The fuck for?" You blink a few times and run your fingers over his chest, listening to the way your heart echoes through your head.
Of course he doesn't say anything. He can tell air-tight lies without saying a word. So he sets you on your feet and grimaces, and you realize right then that there are some bruises you just can't cover up.
Time isn't supposed to grind on.