All week, Simon has been haunted.
Haunted by visions of Nathan's smirk, interspersed with the sound of the hitching of his breath, peppered with the feel of his skin, of his pulse beating through his neck at Simon's cold fingertips. All recent memories, recorded so vividly in his mind.
He's been seething at how the encounter had ended like just another teasing game, how any sense of control he had felt had been so quickly drained from him.
He plotted revenge, which he was very accustomed to doing, and thought maybe this time he wouldn't even need to get drunk to go through with it.
. . .
Come Monday, Simon waits patiently on the bench by the vending machine, invisible. According to plan, his target walks in within thirty minutes of waiting. Nathan's oblivious, yawning, going about his usual routine of humping the machine until it relinquishes something. Suddenly, something pulls him backwards, something that feels like an arm hooked around his neck. He gasps, but is too confused to overpower the force. Too late.
Simon drags him through the nearby men's bathroom doors, maneuvers into the cramped space between two of the urinals, and slams him into the wide mirror that nearly runs the length of the entire wall, a bit disappointed at first that it does not break upon impact. However, he soon sees the perverse advantage of the mirror as he notices it lacks his reflection. It only displays Nathan's face, his angrily puzzled expression, his bared teeth. Simon's fingers trail along Nathan's jawline before the taller boy snaps, trying to bite whatever the fuck is touching him. This is followed by a string of profanities. Simon assumes Nathan has him figured out now. Good. He wants him to know.
Keeping him pinned with his lower half, Simon reaches around to unzip Nathan's jumpsuit and yanks his grey t-shirt up and off and uses it to bind his hands together. There is a definite struggle, yes, but Simon surprises himself with his own strength and swiftness, chalking it up to adrenaline. Besides, this has been meticulously planned. He nearly gets distracted as he notices Nathan's biceps twitch as he resists, but he pulls the knot in the shirt tight, then ducks his head under the loop created by Nathan's arms, effectively trapping their bodies as close together as possible.
Nathan's protests, which originally consisted of barked commands such as "GETTHAFUCKOFF," are now escalating to panicked yelps as he realizes the gravity of the situation. Attempts to free his hands only end up pressing on Simon's lower back, then Nathan feels something poking at his lower back, and that is definitely not good. The most he can do is kick frantically, but mobility is difficult in the tight space between the urinals and Simon's legs are wedged between his, so he's not really hitting anything anyway.
Simon leans over Nathan's shoulder, nipping at his neck, breathing him in. He fixes his gaze on the mirror void of his reflection and in it he only sees Nathan's skin indent with a perfect albeit shallow mold of his teeth as he bites down. It's mesmerizing. So mesmerizing, in fact, that he forgets to savor the short scream that comes out of Nathan, so he has to bite again, much harder this time. He watches the dots of red and purple bloom in the teethmarks.
He keeps Nathan still by maintaining this hold on his neck, leaving his hands free to roam across Nathan's bare stomach, feeling it heave rapidly in time with his desperate breaths. He keeps trying to choke out insults, mainly muttered refrains of "bastard" or "fuckin' nutter," but Simon senses he has accepted his fate, in a way, as he now projects fear rather than resistance. If Simon's mouth wasn't clamped firmly around his prey, it would've no doubt broken into a smile at this realization.
Nathan is so disoriented, he's not even sure what pain to focus on. His shoulders hurt from having his arms pulled back too far, his wrists feel like they're losing circulation, a massive bump is forming on his forehead from hitting the mirror, and of course his neck hurts like fuck and it feels like the skin is going to break any minute. In addition, Simon's been grinding into him slowly but forcefully since the start of this, pressing his bony hips against the tiled wall.
His fingers trail down Nathan's stomach one last time before snaking lower to undo his belt and tug down the bundled mess of his jumpsuit and tight black jeans.
Simon fumbles in his pocket until he produces a tube of lotion, the miniature kind that come with perfume in shitty department store gift sets you give to aunts you don't like at Christmas. He'd nicked it from his mother a while ago, for all those countless sexually-frustrated nights...
A chill rattles Simon, accompanied by that other unbearable tingling feeling, the one that's like every pore in your body is opening and aching for something. It was the same sensation he'd had last week, when he'd been left standing alone and looked down at himself, only this time it is coupled with excitement rather than embarrassment, as his body knows what is ahead. Without looking, without withdrawing his teeth from Nathan's neck, Simon unzips his own trousers, squirts a bit of the lotion into his palm, and wraps a hand around his stiff cock.
Nathan hears the tube clatter to the floor as Simon tosses it aside, and his eyes grow wide at the sight of it. He starts yelling for help but it's quickly reduced to a squeak and a sob as Simon bites harder and tastes blood at last.
He pushes in, eliciting another (quite girly) shriek from Nathan. Now, of course Simon's researched the proper way to go about this, gone on some particularly traumatic pages of WikiAnswers and all that, but frankly, he doesn't give a fuck. He removes his mouth from Nathan's neck to let out a tiny moan, pleasantly surprised by the pressure and warmth and at the instinctual ease with which he's now moving his hips.
Reaching back around to rake his nails down Nathan's chest, Simon breathes through gritted teeth, curling his lip with each thrust. Nathan can't hear anything; can only feel that disembodied hot breath hitting his neck, but really, he's got other more distracting sensations at the forefront of his mind right now. Simon realizes this and takes the opportunity to express himself audibly, louder than he would ever dare to alone in his bedroom at night. Each moan is simultaneously desperate and aggressive, and he thinks of forming words, something assertive and taunting to give Nathan a taste of his own medicine, but he knows they would go unheard so he doesn't worry himself. His dark green dress shirt is clinging to his stomach from the mix of their sweat, but he'd have to squirm out from under Nathan's bound arms in order to remove any clothing, so he persists.
Simon's back arches and blood pounds in his ears as he fixes his gaze on the mirror again. He thinks Nathan looks quite pretty when he cries, what with his teeth constantly bared and blood smeared across his clavicle and those little whimpers that spill out, interrupting the quieter sobs every time he's slammed against the wall by bucking hips.
Nathan's trying to go to some happy place in his head, away from this, because he's given up on it getting even the least bit pleasurable. Halfway through, he'd started hoping that maybe he'd find that male G-spot thing up his ass that everyone talked about with such fervor (hell, on one stoned afternoon, he'd even entertained the thought of utilizing a carrot to find it himself), but no, nope, this here was rape in the truest sense, and now he only prayed to nonexistent gods that he would pass out from the pain.
Simon's going faster now, feeling dizzy but determined. Without realizing it, he's standing on his tiptoes to get the right angle. At last, his head lolls back, his mouth drops open, his own breath feels stuck in his throat to the point of choking. This feeling of losing control of his body is almost the same as the one that comes over him when he disappears, only this is enjoyable, this is the opposite of feeling invisible, this is the first time he's had a proper fuck, and it's so so much better than when he's alone. A choked squeal barely makes it past his lips as he digs his nails into the sides of the deep V formed by Nathan's hips, and it's over.
His eyelids flutter as his head tips forward and he regains his composure, catching his breath with deep panting and gulps. He presses a rough, tight-lipped kiss to Nathan's damp cheek, and the gesture somehow screams a great big "fuck you" rather than anything sentimental.
Simon's hands slide slowly down to rest limp at his sides. His breath is hot on Nathan's neck, and he takes a moment to lick his lips free of dried blood. He pulls out slowly, pressing a palm against the middle of Nathan's back to keep him trapped and upright. As Simon unbinds his hands and uses the t-shirt to wipe himself off, Nathan finally crumples into a shaking ball on the filthy floor. He feels the t-shirt hit him in the face but his eyes are clamped shut, as they have been for the past ten minutes, and he continues hissing in pain.
Simon looms over him for a moment, waiting, perhaps expecting him to jump to his feet and start spewing insults again, punching at the air, but he does not. He only continues to shudder. Silently, Simon walks out the door, twitching a bit as he turns visible again, huge smile plastered on his face.
He contemplates calling "let's do this again sometime" over his shoulder, but does not.