Work Text:
There’s something satisfying about the sounds the boy makes, as if he’s being hurt, each thrust forcing a choked cry out of his mouth. His knees knock against the bathroom door and Desmond has to raise up on his tip toes to get the angle right, hands curled tight around the edge of the stall’s wall for purchase. It feels good to get his anger out, to feel a complete lack of care or empathy for the body before him. It’s nothing like the quick and dirty fucks he used to share with Lucy, nothing like the dizzying highs of sneaking around in clubs after he left The Farm. This is some other emotion, one his ancestors never seemed to want to indulge in.
He feels the boy shift underneath his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position, but Desmond just growls into the nape of his sweaty neck and pushes him hard against the stall’s surface, refusing to let him move an inch. This isn’t for him. This is for Desmond. And he fucking deserves this, after dying for all of humanity. After going through the worst pain, a nightmarish fever of feeling his blood boil beneath his skin. He deserves this scant moment of pleasure, of control over some filthy human boy that doesn’t understand a fucking thing about the world, about how he was saved from a worse fate.
None of them care. So why should Desmond? After all he sacrificed, it didn’t make a difference, didn’t change anything. Humans still war with each other, the Brotherhood continues to dwindle in numbers with every Abstergo driven slaughter.
Who the fuck cares about anything anymore.
Another hard driven thrust in and the boy actually whimpers, a sound that travels right up Desmond’s dick, through his guts and down to his toes. It makes him want to drool, to hear it again and again, to feel the way the other’s body clenches down around him, as if it can’t bear the thought of having to let Desmond go.
“Stop being such a bitch and take it,” he mutters against a pale ear, teeth grazing the shell. The boy’s knees buckle, a long drawn-out moan following, and while it strokes his ego, it’s not the right response that Desmond is craving for. It’s not the right sound, not the right edge of pain. Not enough.
One hand drops away from the wall to wrap around a panting mouth and Desmond squeezes thumb and finger against a nose just to cut off the air supply completely. At first there’s no resistance, their rocking doing nothing more than match the beat of the bass of the club around them. But when Desmond doesn’t let up, he can feel the change from drowsy sex fueled haziness to full on alarm and awareness. It’s sharp and pungent, overpowering his maxed out Senses and now Desmond is the one moaning, huffing it against a neck, forehead pressed against a mess of dark, sweat curled hair. Between his grip on the boy’s face and his weight, he has him pressed against the wall with nowhere to go, nowhere to escape and the power of that knowledge feels like molten lava in his bones, has his hips snapping up and deep until every roll of it melts his spine.
He’s so fucking close. He can taste it. But there’s still something missing, something that he can’t reach no matter how far he stretches. A fury burns in his chest, shirt rucked up to under his pecs, abdomen stretched taut with their position. He can see his cock moving in and out of that poor boy’s ass if he dares to look, but he’s too busy with his eyes closed, searching for that final drop off the edge.
The boy is scrabbling at the wall now, fingers digging into Desmond’s hand like sharp little thorns, but he doesn’t let up. Not even when he feels a heel crush down on his toes, sneakers making squeaky sticky sounds upon the bathroom floor as they fumble.
“Stop it,” he snaps, irritated and so fucking close. The boy’s head is almost at an unnatural angle as they turn and Desmond knocks his shoulder hard into the wall, trying to get something else out of this. It’s just—it’s not enough. It’s not even close and his eyes burn with pent up frustration at being denied this, just this one tiny release. It’s been building under his skin for what feels like hours, starting from the moment the boy decided to grind down on him on the dancefloor.
He'd barely had the kid on his knees once they’d retreated to the bathroom, that wide searching mouth sucking dick like he needed it to survive had been great after a long day. But slopping around in some boy’s mouth hadn’t scratched that itch. It had been much better bending him over and shoving into him dry, a prickling heat scraping along nerve endings, feeling his ass clench at the intrusion, their belts clacking together around their ankles, jeans merely an inconvenience. That the smell of piss was just as strong as the cheap air freshener just made it better, had Desmond laughing into sweaty skin, wondering about what his great ancestors would think if they could see him now.
Wondering what Juno would think.
And god help him, but he wishes she could be here like she had been in the Grey, leading his hands, guiding his mouth and eyes. She had lived within his skin, winding around his tendons and muscles, becoming the air he breathed. She was everything and nothing all at once, pushing into his pores and straightening skin over bones.
As if triggered by mere thought alone, he can sense her there, lurking in the back of his mind, a ghost’s hands on his hips, pushing him to move, to hurt. He can remember the cut along his belly, the way she opened him up just to press inside, to feel him from within in a place that nobody but her had ever been before. Her touch had been brutal but magnificent, burning away every other touch, cruel or kind, that had ever been bestowed upon him.
His belly skin had bubbled and protruded with her searching fingers and he’d screamed until no more sound could come out of him anymore. Because within the Grey, sound was just data, binary ones and zeroes that meant something to someone without any tangibility.
But here, back in reality, back in the mortal realm filled with humanity and all of its disappointments, the boy loses his grip, maybe his consciousness going fuzzy, and his feet skid unceremoniously on the tiles, forcing Desmond in deep as he catches him. It’s an unsatisfying release, but still one that has Desmond cry out, eyes squeezed shut and gripping onto the lithe body beneath his as he curls into it. A few short spasmodic thrusts and he finishes, breathing hard.
It's awful. He hates it.
Hates it more when he presses against the wall, both palms flat, leaving just enough room for the kid to fist himself to completion, moaning happy little sighs that rankle Desmond’s nerves. Dazedly, he wonders if it would have felt better to have killed him, to have felt the moment life escape his body.
His dick twitches at the thought, a throb of an ache echoing up through his body. In return, he swears he can feel cold dead lips press a kiss to his temple as if rewarding him for the thought.
He grabs a wad of toilet paper to clean himself off as he pulls out wetly, feeling satiated but not fulfilled. The boy is murmuring some sort of praise at him and begging for a number, but Desmond is too busy wondering if he should warn the kid to shit out his seed ASAP in case Abstergo get wind of their activity together. God knows those fucks would anal probe some poor kid just to get another sample of him; the thought has him roll eyes to the sky.
And then it’s over. The boy is hurried out of the stall with uncaring hands and Desmond is left alone to pulls his jeans back up and re-do the belt. Smoothing his shirt back down just makes him more aware of the sweat along his back and it annoys him to feel so dirty, so messy. He suddenly and desperately wants a shower, something to scrub away this irritability that he can’t seem to soothe.
Two steps forward, one step back.