Swallow Justin drives too fast.
You shiver, shiver and your hands on your thighs, tight grip, white knuckles, tight.
Justin drives too fast.
The wheels scream when he pulls into the drive, and.
You're weak-kneed, shivery when you stumble out. "Fuck," you say, "fuck, you drive like a maniac."
He grins, manic edge to the cockiness: "What's the point with fast wheels if ya don't use 'em?"
Like this: music on, something sharp and stuttering, off the r'n'b, on drum'n'bass, the rhythms pulls you along. Your hips go with it, quick sway, thrust, swivel, and he laughs and his hands, his hands on your waist, his breath on your neck, "don't stop, don't stop, go on--"
He's king in this white castle of shiny marble and chrome, gaudy, cold and designer-flashy, but he fits here. You turn again and he's another wall in his own house, as golden and shiny as everything else, as hard and ungiving; you're caught between marble and muscle, his hands sliding up your sides, down your arms, fingers around your wrists, long, strong fingers. You smack the back of your head against the wall when you lift your chin, bare your throat to him.
He doesn't bite. He licks your throat, wet heat up and along the line of your jaw, your mouth.
In his bedroom, the ceiling is covered in painted golden stars. More gold for the golden boy, he's gold-shiny even in ripped jeans and a plain grey t-shirt that he's ripped the sleeves off himself; little tart likes to show off his arms now, all that work he puts into looking good, all the hours of sweating, grunting workouts. You just like the strength.
You wear a blank vinyl shirt and vinyl pants, and it's too much plastic, but you like the way it feels, sweaty and clingy and too hot for tonight, but good. Eyeliner, just enough to deepen your eyes, and you like that, too, the way the black around your eyes makes the bones in your face - already prominent cheekbones, the jut of your jaw, the ridges of your eyebrows - somehow more there, sharply defined under your skin. "You're a goth slut," Justin said and laughed when he saw you, but now he touches your face, pulls his thumb over your eyelid, smudges the makeup.
He's always too fast and.
He's always too fast.
Never stops to ask "can I?"
You wouldn't dream of saying no, even if he did ask. He turns you around, easily; you like his strength. "Not on the bed," he mutters, "beds, man, too fucking soft," and you don't complain. You like his strength.
Just one light press on your shoulder and your knees buckle on their own, reflex. His face is impassive; not his usual expression, he has mobile features, soft features that always cloaked the hardness his life has forged in him.
"Hey," he says, and you look up. He's smiling, just a tiny curl of his lips, not unkind, not hard. He's still innocent; you forget that because he's so resilient. Soft and pretty over a hard shell and kind, curious, young underneath. You never learned to hide yourself like him, but you're kindred at the core.
"hey," you say, and it's breathless. His floor feels warm through your pants, hard and warm, and your knees ache, but distantly, unimportant in the scheme of things.
Justin isn't moving fast enough and.
Justin isn't moving fast enough.
His hand is on your head, gently, and you lean closer to him, press your face against the denim, close your eyes, lift your hands and.
He slides down, down on the floor with you. You open your eyes, blink, blink, and he kisses you, too gently. You nip at his mouth, catch his tongue between your teeth, make it harder.
Maybe you say that, too, your tongue forming the words around his; maybe he even understands you. His hands, his hands and his fingers dig into your shoulders. He can do this, hard and soft and rough and gentle at once.
Sometimes, sometimes he understands. Or, you think, maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe he doesn't know how you feel at all. It doesn't matter if he hurts you out of carelessness or because you ask for it.
He tears his mouth off yours, breathes harshly. His hands are still clutching your shoulders. "You're--" He leans his forehead against yours. "You're so fucking kinky, man."
Maybe he doesn't understand, but he knows. And he doesn't stop.
He doesn't stop and.
He doesn't stop.
He pushes you back, hand over your face, over your mouth, fingers on your mouth, lips; you bare your teeth. He doesn't stop even when you bite.
On your back. The floor is too hot for you; why does he have heating in it?
He doesn't, you think, it's just you. Overheated.
"Hot," you mumble against his hand, "hot--"
"Yeah," he says and takes his hand away and you miss it. He needs it, though; belt buckle, your big buckle of hammered silver that should make you look like a roughneck but doesn't.
He looks like a roughneck even with the soft face and soft mouth; the buzzcut hardens him into a man.
He has your buckle unbuckled and he grins. You look at his even, white teeth, big, even, white teeth.
He doesn't bite. He licks your mouth, your chin, your throat. It's a feather instead of a hammer, but torture anyway. You bite your own lip, as hard as you can, bite down until you taste metal. He kisses you and freezes.
He stops and.
He stops.
"Don't. Stop," you grit between clenched teeth, and you want to bite down on the sore spot again. More than that, much more than that, you want him to.
He doesn't bite. He licks your mouth, his tongue quick and light, teasing silver-bright pain from your skin. You whimper, you think, it feels like a whimper torn from your throat, big on the inside, small and pathetic out in the air, under his wet, slick, lewd tongue.
He moves over you, nudges your legs apart with his knee. You're sweating in your plastic clothes, you're a hothouse all on your own and you don't know if you like it like this, sweltering hot in too hot, too tight clothes, or naked and caught under him, skin and skin and sweat and skin.
He tugs at your pants, lightly at first and then too hard, ripping a seam. The vinyl protests and clings to you and it's almost painful but not enough.
He leaves your shirt on, and you sweat in its clutch and like it.
He grabs your wrists and pins your hands above your head.
"You just need it like this," he says. You think he sounds surprised. You're surprised, too. That he hasn't figured it out until now. But he's that kind of boy, a little self-involved. He doesn't think hard, doesn't listen hard, doesn't notice things about other people, not all the time, not when he's listening to himself.
He's listening to you and.
He's listening to you.
"Yeah," you say and he drops down on you, bigger than you and he's strong, strong and ruthless now, purposeful. You arch your back as far as it goes against his weight, grind your hips against his, chafe your hot skin against rough denim.
He slides a hand down along your body, careless fingers, sharp nails skidding over your shirt, and over skin, digging into skin, biting into your hip, pushing down. His mouth is on yours, and you feel teeth now, not as hard as you can handle, but sharp teeth worrying your raw lips.
He's self-involved but always generous, you never doubted that. You push him until he notices, kick at his door and he opens it, grumpy but compliant. Dance around him and touch him and bat your eyes at him and whisper, "you can if you want to," and he wants to.
He wants to please you and.
He'll hurt you to please you.
His hand goes between your legs, blunt fingers unhesitating now, but he leans back and you see his face and the concentrated frown and worry there, worry, concern, and you worry, too.
Not enough to let him stop. You twist in his grip and push against his fingers, and he's strong and ungiving and he worries, but he doesn't stop. He'll hurt you to please you.
You spread your legs wider and think you could get him to do anything to you, anything, even if he didn't like it, you could get him to cross any line like this; a little at a time.
You always thought he'd talk dirty, you realise. You thought he'd be like the rest. He always seemed the type; he talks big with the guys, he grins cocky grins.
He stabs his fingers into you and you bite your lip around the sound you want to make. He's moving a little, not just his hand, but his hips. You feel him against your leg, careful pressure, and you want him in that big, surprising way you never got used to, not when he grew up tall and grew up strong and you wanted and wanted and never figured you could just rub your body against his and ask.
You want him and.
You want him in a new way.
"I'm--" he breathes against your face, hot and sweet and you want his tongue and teeth and lips again, "Can--"
You struggle against his grip, arch up and take his tongue and teeth and lips and shut him up before he can ask.
Don't ask, don't ask, just take, you want to say, but you don't need to. He wants you in a new way, too.
You wonder if it's hard for him, this, giving you this, pinning you down and taking you, working out what you want when you can't ask, working out what you mean when you do ask. You never thought you were high-maintenance in bed, but you suppose you are.
He lets you go and.
He lets you go.
To unbuckle his own jeans, and you want to rip the shirt off him, because it's keeping you from his smooth skin and his hard muscles. You touch his arms, shoulders, neck, rub your hands over the stubble on his head; it's like rough velvet, and a fading memory of soft curls in your fingertips.
"I have-- I have, um," he mutters, and you want to make him stop talking. Stop talking and start. Start. Do something else.
You pull at his shirt and he understands, understands because he's on uncharted territory and listens to you, listens to you, takes his cues from you, and he takes off the shirt and shimmies out of his jeans, easily.
"Um--" he says, "um, I'm--" and again, hesitation, and you're angry, you're angry because he's not someone nameless and ruthless and careless and hard; he's Justin, the same Justin you have known since he was twelve, and even with the shaved head and attitude he's a boy, just a boy. He's probably not, hardly, fucked someone like you before. Maybe he thought you'd be sweet.
"Justin," you whisper, nothing like sweet, "Justin, stop dicking around."
He tastes sweet, but his teeth sting when he bites your tongue. He scratches your sides, almost desperately, his fingers skid over your ribs, under your sweaty shirt. He takes directions; he's been told what to do all his life - smile, Justin, give us a smile; dance, Justin; sing, Justin; look this way, Justin - and he doesn't even think about it anymore, part of the job, part of what makes him what he is.
He'll fuck you if you tell him to, and he'll do it hard if you whisper the command in his ear. You wonder why you never thought of this before.
He'll fuck you and.
He'll fuck you hard.
He's not clumsy, even though you know he's never been put on the spot like this. He can cover it up, cover insecurity with cool, fear with roughness. How well that works out for you. You can let your head fall back against the floor and relax the right muscles and make it a little easier for him, but not too easy. He has to fight you, enough to make you feel it. He'll feel it afterwards, you think. He's too horny and too excited and too busy hiding his fear to feel the sting of your teeth on his shoulder or the wear and tear of knees on floor.
He's been holding back, you know. Holding back, because he's a good boy, brought up to respect whoever he gets to touch, brought up polite and caring, but it's wearing off, all of the civilised veneer, and he bares his teeth at you and the next thrust hurts your back, burns through your body and you can't close your eyes because he's staring at you, narrowed eyes, sharp eyes, and he's got you pinned that way, too, not just his hands on your arms, not just his hips battering yours, not just that.
You think he'll get better at this, and that's the first time you think about the next time; halfway through the first time.
Suddenly, with a vicious thrust that you feel in your diaphragm, he grins at you, wolfish, all teeth, and you think he found the place that wants it like this.
He bows his head over you; he doesn't lick you. He bites the tendon in your neck, hard, and you don't try to muffle your scream and he holds you down and you're ground into the floor, helpless and crushed and lost and you come, all the way from the aching muscles in your stomach, the pain his teeth draw, the scrape of him not stopping, not caring, letting it all happen, delicious, and you think he doesn't have to be much better. Much better might kill you.
You watch his face and.
You watch his face.
He's soundless, hardly breathes, and it's strange and almost eerie, because everyone else you've been with, almost everyone else, male or female, has grunted or screamed or cursed out their pleasure, but he's quiet. He trembles at the last second, shudders; you feel it in his hands on your shoulders, in his legs, in his hips, in his breath against your face. Shudders and relaxes suddenly, quickly, completely.
You lie under him and wait. Sticky and flushed and every joint aching, trembling, worn.
"Um," he mumbles against your neck.
"'s fine," you say and smile. Maybe he smiles, too. You stroke his damp neck, his wet back. He's buried his face against your collarbone. He's limp and heavy and quiet. You pat his head. In the silence, you hear the faint stutters of the beat through the wall; the CD he put on hasn't ended yet.
You move under him and.
You move.
He rolls off you, lets you go, lets you out of his hold. You roll after him, kiss his shoulder, kiss his cheek.
He smiles for real when you kiss his mouth with your sore lips. When you pull back again, he touches your mouth with his fingertips, very gently.
"Sorry," he says, and you know he still doesn't understand. You swallow your reproach, because he doesn't need to understand. He takes direction well.
You swallow, and the taste of blood in your mouth makes you smile. He stretches, yawns, settles next to you, comfortable on the hard floor and holds you, and he's young and sweet like his smiles. You think you like that in him.
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