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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Smecker/Greenly
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Second-person pov.
Summary: Let’s try the breakdown without the whiskey.
***
You think he’s drunk, smashed, gone. He’s got his knees clamped high up on your ribs and his nails are ripping down your back till you smell blood and shit, but he’s bitchier than any woman, girl, whore you’ve ever bedded. He sure as hell ain’t prettier. Not with the way the corners of his mouth draw the curtains of his cheeks back, ripples them into snarling folds. The way his eyes are mad and staring, rolling around as you scrabble for a grip on his sweat-slippery hips and, and the way he’s not even trying to hold back when he cries out.
Agent Paul Smecker, all around pansy and asskicker extraordinaire. You’ve seen him go nuts exactly once--once, because this is past crazy and on into a dimension you never fucking wanted to have nightmares about—and even then he had a rhyme, a beat to his madness. A full fucking Beethoven symphony. But now it’s all jagged, wrenching legs around your twisting torso and curses like you’ve never heard in the South Side and the holy-god squeezing of hot flesh around your cock. Your prick’s been sucked in, locked in to his raw ass and he wants it rawer and when you hold back he flays you with his nails. A drop of sweat scorches your eye and you think for a moment that you see little strips of bloody skin flying off into the air.
But not yet, not yet because you’ve been fucking him harder and hardest, fucking in self-defense practically and God, that’s a laugh in the wrong place. But he’s going under, finally starting to flop and those goddamned eyes aren’t staring the bejeezus out of you anymore because they’re rolling up into his skull. Probably burning out his neurons; he doesn’t smell of Scotch so maybe his regular joint bounced him out and left him with you. Not maybe—definitely. Usually it’s you on your back, whining and then whimpering and then making little panicky pleading noises while he smiles, smiles, smiles alley-cat and has fun dissecting you.
You’ve dreamed a lot about what it’d be like to flip the tables, slide into the dealer’s seat and control the hand. Got it all worked out in your head, with him for once bending his neck—but no, it’s not like that. It’s nothing like that. It fucking terrifies you even more than that one moment where you’re paralyzed on the edge and you think oh fuck he’s gonna leave he’s really gonna and he just smiles.
He’s letting you have him, all right. Even on the fucking table, where he won’t even let mugs sit without a coaster. But what he’s doing is ripping himself open and throwing great gory chunks of himself at you. What he’s doing is latching you in with mouth and hoarse shouts and nails and knees. What he’s doing is wrapping his bloody sides around you and suffocating you in the stench. And you try to raise your head, gasp past the sweat and the airless breathing, and the only reason you make it is because he doesn’t. His knees staccato-run over your ribs as his prick splashes your belly with come, as he convulses around you and maybe it’s the first time he came first but the margin’s pretty damn narrow.
You collapse. And your chest heaves and heaves till the air finally feels like it’s going in, and you’re about to formulate a way to say what the fuck was what without tipping him back into insanity when he says something.
“I. Don’t. Fucking. Know.” Smecker always knows. He always knows where he’s been, where he is and not only where he’s going but where everyone else is as well. An apt comparison might be an atom bomb dropping, except that would be far simpler because there wouldn’t be anyone walking around to deal with what’s left in that case. “For all I know, it was just some damned revenge cycle.”
“What?” Yeah, you’re an idiot. You’re a second-rate detective with a street vocab and just enough brains to be envious and not enough to know when not to try.
Paul looks lost, if that word even exists in his universe. But then, he’s not in his world right now and he’s not talking to you. He’s talking to some ceiling fan in a different universe. “Revenge, you jackass. It all started with the Italians. Went to the Irish. They took it back. Don’t you get it? Everyone else happened to be collateral damage—the real targets were all connected with the first strike.”
“But they killed the guys that went after them—you said it was self-defense--”
“Exactly. Those first two were that and then it was threefold repayment. Ninefold. Fucking rule of threes, at any rate. And I ate it up with a big long spoon…” He closes his eyes. “Maybe not. Maybe that father of his is going to take them on a real justice quest.” Laugh like his coffee, black and shitty and false-sweet. “And maybe he’s just got a bug up his ass from decades ago. Oh, Jesus…”
The jumps he’s making, you can’t make. You can see the valley road and you can see him standing on a canyon wall miles away, and you can hear him, a little.
He sounds like he’s crying. But he can’t be. He’s Smecker.
Maybe he’s Paul, you think. And there’s your first bridge and you’ve looked forward to crossing it for Christ-God a while, but now you really fucking don’t want to.
***