Teeth, a snarl, hot air against his ear. Rough touches and an occasional scrabbling noise. If he didn't know better, he'd say he was being attacked by an uncultured, wild animal.
The artificial zipping noise of a seatbelt unbuckled, snapping back into its place by the worn, musty seats. And the beast drove forward with greater intensity and he snapped and crashed haphazardly into the glass and suddenly a large hand gripped onto his throat and squeezed and squeezed.
The smaller choked, whipped out his blade and slashed with abandon at the skin—so much unscarred, untainted skin—that grew moist, sticky and warm beneath his bruising fingers.
"Fuck… fuck flea," came the gruff voice next to his ear, the fingers unhooking themselves from his neck only to pull desperately on his zipper.
The metal caught and ground its gears and the demon hissed and spat above him, grabbed the trousers by the waist and simply ripped the fabric off with a snap and crackle that ignited the burning air around them.
The brunette grinned wryly and sank his teeth into the bare shoulder that tightened and moved merely inches in front of his face.
All too soon the jeans that fit the blond only this morning seemed all too tight, all too constricting and hot and damp. Discarded them, and pulled on the polished wooden handle that opened a door and caused both of the bodies to tumble out of the backseat and onto the harsh and freezing cold pavement underneath.
A choked gasp of pain from underneath when his face pressed and bled against the grey and unforgiving ground. And it was not enough.
He blinked in the sea of dark that only flickering lights penetrated, filtering through the dusty air that rasped against their lungs with every desperate, delicious, delirious breath they took.
The brunette underneath laughed—that insane yipping that ricocheted off the concrete walls and pelted his ears like the screaming and moaning of a prostitute who lay trying to forget. Devastated, dying, bleeding, alone.
There, in front of him, among the crushed cigarette butts, strings of gum, and slips of crushed paper… lay the man that he hated, hated, HATED. And yet… found him beautiful in a strange and repulsive way… and weeded his fingers through that mop of rough hair and pulled enough to hear the satisfying noises of wheezing.
The brunette was yelling, jeering, jarring his head back to leer at him with the glinting, gleaming, blood-curdling eyes of a starved hyena… and he pushed in, feeling the muscles of the man beneath him convulse and give in.
And it was silent, save for the withering song of a loon and the distant rush of cars beyond the blackened, oily walls and the quiet whimpers which he no longer knew the origins of. The blind, unguided, unbridled synchrony that they both slipped into. An instinctive "I love you."
A wave of gratifying ecstasy that crashed into existence, and the brunette glared at the disgusting ground that he kneeled on, the ground that men spat on and that beggars and dying men kissed in their rare, last moments of faith.
And the beast was gone. A phantom of the vehicle that brought him there just moments ago. A memory of the man—the ianimal/i—that pulled him from his high, glass-protected, paramount pedestal down to the lowest, dirtiest level of a fucking parking garage.