Warning: Slash, language, sex [somewhat graphic]. This is basically a PWP, borderline NC-17.
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine. Mine, mine, mine.
AN: Pre-underground. Nathen's POV; the other person is Cameron, who is mentioned by both Nathen and Matt in underground. You don't really need to read underground to get this, but little things that appeared in that story do show up in this one. Not my best work, but I like it anyway.
I'd be lying if I said that we don't always end up like this, that we have things in common, that we actually talk before we fuck, that I like him and he likes me. I can say that its okay, its fine and we can deal with it because it works and we get what we want from each other. I get a release, a tiny wash of pleasure, and a tingling that leaves me desperate and aching for more, even if the feeling lasts only a moment before it disappears. He gets fucked into the mattress, hard enough to mentally tear him apart, a sin to hold over my head, and a reason to hate me when the light flickers on again. I know that it's not necessarily an even trade but it's something.
And so, here we are.
The humid air floating through the room is stifling, smelling too much like sex, the fan overhead creating nothing more than a gentle breeze that stirs the air until it mingles with the fresh air seeping in through the open windows. It's quiet, the sound of our combined breathing barely hiding the squeaking shriek of the fan and the waves that continuously swallow the beach outside.
It could almost be paradise.
I'd rented this house with the hopes that I could finally catch a break and rest for a while, away from the frantic tour and quirky best friends. Needless to say, I have done neither, any plans I'd had concerning relaxation fading away when he appeared on the doorstep two days after I'd arrived, a smile on his face and a suitcase full of lube. We've been fucking ever since, hardly leaving the bedroom except to piss and grab a bottle of water that to my surprise, tastes better when its sucked off sweaty skin.
A hand slides across my skin and I look down, sighing quietly as fingers tease the sensitive skin of my thigh, nails scratching as the fingers curl. I feel him shift beside me and I glance over, blinking slowly as he moves until he's leaning over me somewhat, one arm bent to support his head while the other continues to touch me, the gentle pain of his black-painted nails skimming across my hip and stomach, moving around my belly button once before stopping to trace over the tattoo beneath. He sighs just as quietly as me, hand leaving my skin long enough to push his sweat-tainted hair off his forehead, revealing for a moment the dark eyes that always seem to be tightly shut when we fuck.
He should be beautiful but he's not; not in the way I want him to be. He's all about rough edges, domination, and detachment, well aware that I'm in way over my head and that he's falling headlong with me.
Once the offending hair is out of the way, his hand returns to my skin, nails continuing to scratch a red-tinted trail across my chest, pausing only to tease a nipple before his head lowers and his tongue sweeps over the burning flesh. Gasping softly, I lift my hand, tangling my fingers in his damp hair, pulling his mouth away from my skin long enough to tug until his lips are touching mine and I can believe that he isn't as fucked up as me because his lips taste like salt and sweat and blood from the mark on my shoulder, the one that matches the scars on my thighs and my back, his attempt to mark me as his own, to reassure himself that I am his.
His tongue twists lazily around mine, drawing forth a moan and a sigh. Breathing heavily, he pulls back from the kiss, gazing down at me with an expression of blissful exhaustion. I push his hair off his forehead a few times, something twisting inside as he leans into the movement, a sleepy smile barely appearing before he leans down to continue licking his way across my chest.
As if I want to belong to anyone else.
A weary sigh escapes me before I can stop it and I look away from the person who teases so gently but can somehow still manage to tear me apart with only a few words or a soft cry. I close my eyes as he lifts his head, cooling my moist skin with a breath before moving onto an untouched area, his teeth nipping at the skin covering my rapid pulse, tongue roughly caressing in-between tender bites.
I know he thinks I'm just a fuck and I don't care. At least, I try to convince myself that I don't care about him at all, that I don't mind getting together even if it's just to fuck and talk silently about nothing, that I don't mind the not-so-innocent lack of knowledge or the fact that he likes to ignore me.
This isn't a relationship; it's barely an acknowledgement and it's all about convenience. At least, on his part.
The mattress shifts beside me and I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly as he settles himself above me, shockingly warm hands sliding over my chest and stomach as he presses his hips against mine. I curse my self-control as my flesh awakens, telling myself that one day I won't be so easy to fuck, I won't be so easy to let go. Hell, I just won't be easy; I'll fuck when I want to. His lips leave my neck, another sleepy smile stretching his lips as he continues to move his hips, a soft moan escaping with each brush of his cock against mine.
For a moment, I want to push him away, tell him that I'm tired of this and that I'm tired of him but I don't. I barely move at all, watching him numbly as he shifts and presses down, gasping loudly as my cock slides into his body until his ass is resting against my thighs. Hands grasping at the sheets around me, I clench my jaw, swallowing a groan at the tightness of his body and the heat that seems to penetrate every wall, every cell, every little thing about me until I'm left open and bare beneath him, back arching and hips beginning to move against my will, thrusting up into the body of the only person that makes me feel alive.
He laughs, the sound gasping and soft, face betraying the fact that he knows what he can do to me. His hands slide across his own body, pausing to tease any patch of sensitive skin as he meets my thrusts, dark eyes daring me to look away, daring me to make him stop.
He knows I won't.
Releasing the white sheets from my grip, I pressed my hands against his thighs, feeling the muscles tremble beneath my fingers as I grasp his skinny hips, holding him still as I thrust into him, hard and fast and deep, lower lip caught between my teeth as I fuck him.
His eyes drift shut, mouth hanging open as his breath leaves him in harsh pants and something akin to a scream, his hands fisting in the sheets as I move beneath him, telling him with my cock how much I hate him, how much I can't stand him, how I wish I'd never met him in that fucking club, how much I can't live without him, how much I want him, how much I need him, how much I fucking love him.
All too soon, the world falls in around me and I scream hoarsely, orgasm almost breaking me in half as he slams down hard, hand jerking frantically, his scream joining mine in a chorus of something so much more than pleasure and something that much worse than pain. Panting, I melt back against the sheets. With a groan he falls forward, tired body limp, his forehead resting on my shoulder as his breath dries the sweat on my skin. I pull myself from his body, wincing slightly as his weight presses me down into the linen already stained with the sweat and come from hours of resembled fucking.
Slowly, my senses return and I shift, pushing him off of me as indifferently as my numbed limbs allow, watching as he turns over, glazed eyes staring through me as he moves a hand across his stomach, fingers sliding through sweat and come. With a soft sigh and a tilted head, he lifts his hand, fingers pressing against my lips. Still holding his gaze, I open my mouth, tongue caressing each finger before I push his hand away and bend down to do the same to his stomach. The muscles twitch beneath my touch and I lick slowly, the saltiness still lingering on my tongue when I lift my head to kiss him, lips molding against his with a tenderness neither one of us possess with anyone else.
Pulling away, I stare down at him, hands tangling in his hair as my thumbs slowly stroke each cheekbone. He smiles, the grin undeniably sweet and it sickens me because I know he doesn't mean it and he doesn't care and he doesn't give a fuck about me, even though I have given every ounce of my being over to him.
And the fucked-up thing is that he knows how much I care about him.
I hate him. I hate myself more.
Still smiling the sickeningly sweet smile, he reaches over and picks up a pack of cigarettes off of the night table, handing the pack to me before reaching over to grab his lighter. I don't move as he pulls out a cigarette, placing it between my lips as he throws the pack aside. Opening the shiny silver lighter, he flicks it once, the small flame sending out a feeble light that reflects off the sheen of sweat covering his face and throat. He lights my cigarette and I breathe in the first taste of smoke as he tosses the lighter aside, shifting beneath me as he takes the cigarette from my lips and leans up to kiss me, breathing in the smoke I exhale as his tongue slides against mine. After only a few moments, his teeth biting at my lower lip, he pulls back, breathing out a cloud of smoke with a sigh. His fingers place the cigarette back between my lips and I breathe in, sharing the smoke with him once more in a hot, acidic kiss.
I'm not going to tell him the only reason I smoke is to find that taste of something that only seems to appear when I'm kissing him like this, our tainted breath mingling between salt-flavored lips and I'm not telling him that I find myself smoking a pack a day and that I'm developing an addiction to more than just nicotine because I think he already knows.
He knows everything.
Grunting, he pushes me away, sliding out of the embrace as he takes a drag of the cigarette before pounding it out in the ashtray beside the bed. I watch him as he sits up, arms stretching above his head before falling to the bed as he sighs. Without a word, he gets up and stumbles into the bathroom. Seconds later, the sound of water banging off the shower tiles breaks the silence between us.
Falling back against the sheets, I turn on my side, eyes focusing on the world outside the open window, my breathing slow and heavy as his voice blends with the sounds of water and a bird that decides to speak up in the early hours of the morning. Something inside me breaks and I sigh, rolling off the bed and onto my feet, raking a hand through my hair as I shuffle towards the bathroom, entering as I pick up the tattered remnants of my soul and slip beneath the steaming water, one hand tracing the length of his spine.