Chapter Text
The desire to smugly prove Fel wrong outweighs his sincerest desire to flake, as he is wont to do these days. She’s got him a job pulling pints at the bar she works in, says he’d be doing the owner a favour since the place has been rammed with not enough hands on deck, but they both know what this is in aid of.
Silco finishes off his cigarette, fingertips warmed as the cherry burns down too close, edged on by his eagerness to suck every last bit of nicotine out of the thing. He flicks the butt carelessly, barely audible extinguishing hiss as it plops into a murky rainwater filled pothole on the road.
It’s drizzling, but that’s not enough to put a dampener on a Saturday night when you’re under the age of forty. Hens and Bachelors stumble out of bars and clubs straight into another, that same revolving door of blow up sex dolls and white veil headbands, university students and beer bellied men splitting the G.
This isn’t Silco’s usual haunt.
It’s exactly why Fel already told her boss she had a friend who was looking for work, didn’t mind cash in hand or late Saturday nights that bled into early Sunday mornings. She has absolutely zero faith in him to actually show up, which, again, is the driving force behind him being here. ‘The Last Drop’ is busy because it’s an old building overflowing with enough history to have long standing regulars, cheap enough drinks for students, space to dance and an owner who’s apparently run it himself for years.
Silco pushes past patrons at standing tables, groups bobbing to what he makes out over the hum of chatter and laughter to be The Clash until he breaks through to the bar. Felicia is busy serving as he slips around to meet her, a stab of satisfaction at the genuine surprised raise of her plucked thin brows.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in! Found room in your busy schedule, then?”
“You always take top priority, darling, where else would I be?” If Silco’s smile is a little sharp, a little forced, it can’t be helped.
Fel doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response, swiping up a plastic beaker of water for a drink instead. The edge of her hairline shines, greased with perspiration, under the warm yellow lights. A few baby hairs curl wildly around her temples and ears, broken free from her low ponytail.
Felicia is beautiful and a whirlwind but no less sharp for it.
Even now, her speculative gaze picks Silco apart for any odd ends or loose threads but while she believes herself a master of his tells Silco has gotten all the better at hiding them. He’s already numbed his gum lines rubbing them with coke to perk him up, long enough ago he’s not noticeable wired upon scrutiny and thank god he’s such a clever little thing, too, because-
“You must be the infamous Silco Fel’s told me so much about.” Says the brick shithouse that sidles up beside his friend with a pleasant smile, framed with a well maintained salt and pepper beard that Silco immediately wants to wet between his legs. Mental note to check Grindr on his break, but guessing this man’s age he’s either technologically handicapped, riddled or unfortunately straight. “Vander.”
“Ah, so my reputation continues to proceed me.” Call and response. Silco’s bony hand is like a pearl nestled safely in the fleshy inside of a clam when surrounded by Vander’s much larger one. His skin is so warm and tacky with sweat but strong, years of pulling pints and lugging kegs from storage, he imagines. “I hope she at the very least left out some of the gory details.”
“Oh no, I include every sordid bit, especially the illegal stuff!” Fel tosses a smirk over her shoulder as she scoots past Vander, a familial pat on his upper arm before she’s sucked back into the thick of it. In her brief absence a shoal of patrons have swelled against the front of the bar, not rowdy yet but enough to distract from conversation.
That leaves Silco and Vander, then, who makes a move to give him a short tour and a run down. The low hum of his voice might as well not be there, background noise to the insistent pull of his trepidation.
What did Felicia tell him?
Please give my oldest friend a job. He’s a mess and the sense of responsibility, like he owes somebody something will work better than dragging him to a rehab centre-
Silco is not an addict. She’s chewed his ear off about this concern of hers far too many times, on nights with his mouth tinged with stomach bile and vertigo cranked up to eleven. It’s not a habit, stumbling his way to her flat and laying into the intercom buzzer. It only happens when things get scary.
“You won’t have to lift any kegs, don’t worry.” Vander’s voice cuts in, taking Silco’s lapsing silence as hesitance. The bulk of him mostly blocking the opened up doorway with old wooden stairs that plummet into darkness. No one in their right mind would voluntarily carry or drag kegs, he’s worked as a barman in the past, but that constant flame inside of him flickers.
“I may look small but I’m more than capable, thank you very much.” Slender arms, trim build, pianist fingers and long hair spilling like ink over his shoulders draws typical judgement. The smudged kohl around his eyes doesn’t help the stereotypical picture he paints, either, but it helps cover bags.
“I don’t doubt that, I know you could do it.” Vander says, as if he knows anything, closing the door on the dark below. It’s not a big place, not like the clubs he frequents, it is intimate and built for regulars. “I’m just, y’know, big.”
“That you are.” Silco flirts automatically, “I bet bachelorette parties adore you, and frankly I don’t blame them.”
“Careful now, trouble.” Vander says, voice that tiny bit rougher with warning, but the uptick to his lips is anything but. He jerks his head towards the bar in dismissal and when Silco glances back as he passes the beast goes ahead and gives him a smug wink.
Perhaps this might be worth his time after all.
-
The first night is uneventful but fills his usual busy Saturday night well enough. It’s all according to Felicia’s master plan, if he’s there she can keep an eye on him, if he has a promise to keep and cash in his pocket he won’t skulk off anywhere unsavoury. That’s all well and good for a bit, slow midweek shifts mostly spent playing one sided flirty ping pong with Vander in hopes of garnering a reaction or tactfully finding out as much as possible about his life without revealing much of his own. Saturday nights down the drain with the back of his neck burning before the itchiness starts.
Like clockwork; check the time, numb the gums, wait for the bus, have a fag, start work, internally squirm under Vander’s undivided attention, make jaegerbombs on autopilot until his break, mood depending have a smoke out the back or a sneaky line in the bathroom, flirt shamelessly to no result, finish up and make the depressing early morning commute home.
Except nothing goes to plan tonight.
The bus is late and the traffic is a state so it leaves no time for a pre shift, bolstering hit of nicotine to carry him through the first couple of hours at The Last Drop. Silco starts the painful act of clock watching, fingers twitchy and temper flighty because no, we don’t do frozen margaritas for the fifth time and yes, I need to check your ID. He’s preparing himself to announce he’s slipping out for ten minutes when the front door bangs open and a bunch of rowdy university lads spill in, hooting and singing off key, clearly already pissed as they collapse around the nearest empty table.
The leader of the pack targets him at the crowded bar, leaning just too far over the liquor damp countertop to order.
“Three pints of Carlsberg, a Thatcher’s and a rum and coke.” His grin is wide and wobbly, mouth jammed packed with teeth but it’s the eye watering stench of the cologne the man has bathed his navy polo shirt in that Silco notices above all else. There’s a notable lack of any pleases or thank yous as the drinks are lined up on the bar.
“Twenty pounds, ten.” Silco outstretches his hand across the distance, can’t stifle the sigh watching the notes and pennies get tossed onto the countertop instead like he’s invisible.
“What time do you finish?” As if.
“Not interested.” He responds bluntly, swiping the coppers off the edge of the bar and into his waiting hand to be disposed of in the till drawer. There’s no need to mentally count luckily, the inside of his skull throbs sporadically, demanding attention in the background.
“Why not? We could have some fun.”
“Just no, how about that?” Silco snips, patience already at an all time low after wrong outcome after wrong outcome today. His shoes meet resistance when lifting away from the sticky floor, the dark mesh of his shirt clings irritably to sweat wet skin and chafe his underarms, loose strands have escaped his ponytail and tickle the nape of his neck and now this asshole has clamped a hand around his boney wrist like he has the right to.
“Bet you’d change your tune if I paid you, huh? Y’look like a dirty-“
“Get your grubby hand off of him.” Vander’s bulk eclipses the warm bar lights, swallowing their patron in the cast of his shadow. As if he wasn’t already absolutely massive, his impressive arms cross over the swell of his chest, shirt material stretched to its very limits over the tense muscles of his biceps. If Silco were a tad more sexually repressed he’d physically swoon, expecting to be caught in waiting arms, real bodice-ripper stuff, as it stands he silently enjoys the exaggerated show of masculinity.
“We were just talking.” The drunk unhands him immediately under the intensity of Vander’s unwavering stare, but his ass hasn’t shifted from the stool he’s perching on yet.
“I think you were just leaving, actually.”
“Wait, hang on-“ Silco decides to take Vander scruffing the guy like a kitten and hauling him out the front door as his exit cue. There’s commotion as his group of friends follow suit, throwing apologies and protests on their way but it’s all silenced when the fire exit clicks shut behind him, drowned under the muffled thrum of bass.
Out here Silco can breathe properly, think properly. His skin prickles as goosebumps break out across his body, chilly night air easily slipping in through the tiny holes in his poorly chosen outfit, always opting for style over practicality. Temperature only mattered when you were sober, anyway, a stark reminder of how miserable he was feeling tonight with his routine ousted. Thank you very much public transport.
A cursory glance around before he slips his fingers into the depths of his back pocket for his phone, wedged in there between restrictive material and his frankly lacking asscheek. The screen lights up automatically, flooding the area around him and his retinas with synthetic light. It’s just gone midnight, perfect. Silco digs his chewed down thumbnail between the edge of his phone and the black case surrounding it, jimmying it loose to retrieve the treasure squirrelled away inside.
A tiny plastic baggy calls to him, no weight to it at all but enough snow contained for an uplifting bump Silco is way overdue. His stash is starting to run dangerously low, occupied enough to have let his usual diligence with stock upkeep lapse. Silco slips his phone away momentarily to squeeze the seal open between thumb and index knuckle, gently teaming the contents onto the back of his left hand in as straight a line as he can manage on short notice.
Silco much prefers to lay it out and cut it nice and pretty but, needs must and all. He hesitates with a squint, shifting his held up fist to try and determine if it’s pure white or slightly pink, but the low light in the back alley isn’t enough to provide much clarification. Whatever. Speed or coke or some back garden shed shit Singed made, he’s closing the distance and sniffing it, expecting the irritation along the sensitive skin inside his nostril, the body’s instinct to sneeze and waste it.
He flicks the plastic aside to land amongst the black bags piled up waiting for collection in the morning, sniffing the tickle inside his nose away. Next port of call is a cigarette, plucked from his trusty pocket packet and old reliable flip lighter, plumes on his first exhale more prominent out in this temperature. The nicotine flush mixes pleasantly with the much needed hit of dopamine, brain pumped with helium and only just anchored in his skull. Silco huffs out a smoke tinged laugh, back bumping up to rest against rain damp brick.
That may have been the last of his stash, but he’ll turn over every last drawer when he gets home later, flip the mattress, empty all the cupboards. For now Silco resigns himself to less drastic measures - scrolling through his lengthy contact list for any links who would be up for trading when the sun is starting to rise in a few hours. His screen stops, thumb hovering over R, heartbeat picking up now but it’s not because of this, it’s because of the high, that’s all.
Are you around about 5ish?
Silco knows better than to get an immediate response or even a lengthy one. He only crawls on his hands and knees to Reg when he’s foolishly coasted along until the last dregs and can’t stomach the thought of scrambling around like a junkie last minute. They have an arrangement sporadically, that Silco does as he asks, debases himself for the greater good, heading home with a bag weighing heavier on his shoulder and his palpitations soothed.
Yes. Just c or other stuff?
Well, Silco won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Whatever. Happy to pay anything, too.
The response to that is pathetically quick, one of the few times Reg will break and show his hands is when it comes to sex - the promise of it, the having it, and the using of it. He’s a dealer, so it’s only in his nature to work around what can be gained from every single interaction in his life and Silco’s body tends to be his preferred brand of currency.
5. See you then.
No use in responding to that boring close off, business concluded, meeting booked. Silco focuses on finishing up his smoke, pinging out a few other half assed texts to other men he’s fucked for various reasons when the fire exit door creaks open a few steps down the alley. He’s expecting Fel, maybe one of the regulars he’s sparked up rapport with, but no, Vander’s unmistakable figure joins him instead.
“Sil? You alright?”
“Yes.”
“It’s okay if you’re not, he was a prick.” Vander grunts, moving the few steps closer to Silco before slumping against the alley wall opposite. Those arms, that chest, yet again taunting him. “He’ll be waking up with a sore jaw for the trouble tomorrow, mortified too, I imagine.”
“There was really no need for all of that, believe me when I say there’s barely any honour left to defend.” Silco sniffs, knuckling his nose. Any other night, if he’d been drunker or higher, he’d have probably said yes and let that asshole use him in a bathroom stall for a dirty handful of cash or a couple of grams.
“That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” Vander’s boots scuff the floor as he shifts closer, wide open palms raised placatingly, expecting the cornered street rat to scarper off into the dank hole he crawled out of.
“Right.” Silco blows out his last lungful away from his face, fag butt joining the rest of the rubbish, narrowed eyes assessing which outcome is likely to play out here. He doesn’t expect Vander to wrap a giant paw around his slender wrist, deceivingly gentle, as if he deserves that treatment. “If you say so.”
“You’re worth more than a couple of bruised knuckles, love.” Which is definitely the most romantic thing anyone on the face of the Earth has ever said to him. Sure, he’s heard a plethora of compliments but they mostly revolve around his body and the pleasure it can wring out of someone else’s- you’re so tight, your mouth feels amazing, no one has ever let me go this hard before.
All in all Silco would price himself at enough tranquilliser to stop a human heart and enough speed to start it right back up again. Anyone can make of that what they will.
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Vander still hasn’t released his wrist, could easily close the tip of his index finger and thumb in a complete circuit around the knobbly joint. Silco scoffs, plasters on that chipped shark tooth grin.
“I’m not opposed to a bit of pain.”
“So that’s why you’re always covered in bruises then, by choice?”
And what is he expected to say to that? Silco has been working under the assumption that their relationship would naturally unfold the way the majority of them do when the other person unashamedly stares at him day after day (although usually it’s on a quicker timescale). Vander hasn’t been fantasising about him, then, but assessing. What an open book he must be; Felicia’s charity case crack whore of a friend who slithers into his bar battered and out of his bin on god knows what.
“What do you want?” Silco answers Vander’s question with one of his own, radiating painful defensiveness. The skin of his neck itches as blood bubbles molten beneath it, rare for him to feel any sense of shame nowadays but feeling caught out is coarse salt rubbed against a tender wound. He knows men. He knows what they expect and he doesn’t like when it’s different.
“Just came to see if you were alright-“
“No, Vander, I mean I’ve noticed the way that you stare at me.” The holier than thou, white knight shit isn’t going to fly with him, even if a sinister whisper of daddy issues drifts up from the violently repressed recesses of his mind.
“Do you think I’m thick?” Vander asks bluntly, some of his usual warmth bleeding out. It takes quite a bit to rile him up, Silco seems to be learning faster than most.
“Well-“
“I know exactly what you’re trying to do, what you’ve been trying to do since you started here.” Whether Vander notices or not, his fingers are beginning to curl tighter around Silco’s wrist, radius and ulna meeting with a popping kiss. “This little game you’re playing, you’ve not tricked me into fucking you, if I wanted to I would’ve. Is that clear?”
Crystal, but Vander isn’t outrightly shutting him down with a lip curled up in disgust, or even just bluntly turning him down. That is an experience no one is exempt from every now and again, not even himself. They’re still standing out here in the privacy of shadow, alone in the world and too close for comfort. Sue him if he’s feeling even more brazen than is typical, riding the rocky waves of anxious adrenaline, coke sweats and gut punch horniness for a burly man looming over him.
“What’s stopping you, then?” Silco tenses his captured hand up into a fist, giving a halfhearted tug to test the give of Vander’s hold. He barely moves, doesn’t even dignify the attempt with shifting his attention from his face. He’s not entirely certain if the pin pricks spattering across exposed flesh is excitement or the starting of rain, dark clouds rolling in to steal what little light they do have by blocking the half moon. “I’ve made it obvious I want you to look, yes? So why don’t you go ahead and touch me, already?”
The cover of night makes people braver, to say things they wouldn’t say in polite company, to touch the way you might not touch with the bedside table lamp on, to swallow or inject shit there’s no way in hell you’d have swimming through your bloodstream if you saw the state of your dealer’s fingernails. Maybe, just maybe, this is why Vander runs a bar of all things, to be seen as the guardian of the inebriated rather than any other assumptions people make of him.
“Let me take you back to yours.” Vander says instead, bypassing the proposal, allowing it to fester between them. Silco is abruptly reminded he despises self-titled knights in shining armour. He is not a fragile petal likely to shatter apart at the first rough touch, tender treatment is unwarranted. His twenty four wild years have rarely known kindness, moments of affection crammed in short supply between pure shit, and cruelty, and escapism. He doesn’t need saving now, and he doesn’t need unnecessary concern.
“Or..” Silco drags the vowel out, “I can finish the last hour and a half of my shift.”
“I don’t give a toss about that, Sil, y’know I don’t. Come on.”
Heel.
Silco is definitely not high enough to submit so readily, even if Vander’s baritone voice liquifies his spine until it has pooled in the gusset of his underwear. He could snap his arm and pin him like a dead butterfly, spread out and primed for inspection. There would be no way, no possibility to fight off a man his size, never mind one with such strength held under thick corded muscle and liberally fur dusted skin. One hand would be enough to cover Silco’s entire mouth and both nostrils, it’s never going to happen like that, though, and looking less and less likely to happen in any capacity.
“Let go. I don’t need the theatrics, thank you.” Silco says hypocritically, dusting imaginary dust off of his front once released. His barely there clothes are damp from that ceaseless drizzling rain, clinging and irritable across his entire hyper aware body. Vander is just as miserably persistent as the endless rain, dumb old dog he is still staring waiting for a change of heart and a willing victim to deliver safety to their own doorstep. There’s a slim chance he would have wanted inside, finally sink into the only soft, giving space Silco’s prickly vessel has, but, well, no one is allowed entry into the only place he can be truly alone.
Plus, it’s a pig sty. Embarrassing. If Silco had ever had a mother who gave two shits or wasn’t half lobotomised when he raised himself, she’d be rolling in her grave right now at what her only son grew up to be - and that’s excluding the (basically) prostitution and substance abuse.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine, yes, you can take me home.”
He can blame it on the crushing weight of living and how fucking uncomfortable it is sometimes for the reason he relents. Immovable object unfortunately conceding to unrelenting force. Silco’s internal clock nervously reminds him if he didn’t take the out he’d have to serve drinks in clothes damp and sucking like a leech to him, only to then be withheld the simple joy of passing out in his own messy, musty sheets in exchange for getting drilled at his dealer’s place. The only reassuring thought is that his cunt, if Reggie will go for it, makes him cum quick without fail every single time.
Faster Silco wraps that up the sooner he can float off into blissful unconsciousness with sweet, filthy thoughts.
“Wait here and I’ll just go grab my jacket.” Vander says, taking a few blind backwards steps toward the fire exit door, keeping an eye on Silco like he’s prone to bolting.
He plucks his fag packet back out, pops another preroll between his lips more so to appear busy than anything else, a reason to stay and wait like he’s been asked to, best behaviour and all that. Silco doesn’t need another smoke so soon, doesn’t even really fancy it, but he’s sparking up nontheless and puffing away. Muscle memory, zoned out and tracing the grouting between grimy bricks, ashy inhale in and exhale, repeated until the door is squeaking back open and he’s no longer unsupervised. Silver catches lowlight swinging from Vander’s fingertips, keys jingling as they walk side by side down the short length of the stinking crush between buildings. He’s heard it mentioned before, but not seen it for himself until now-
Vander’s motorbike.
It’s basic black, has touches of more classical looking parts whilst also appearing modern and that’s about as much as Silco could care to think about it. It’s of no interest to Silco until Vander is swinging one of those tree trunk legs of his over the body and jerking his head in silent command for him to hop on the back. So, then, there is some appeal. A leather seat between thighs, scooting up close to a warm body and wrapping slender arms around a firm fat and muscle lined stomach. The helmets are a mood killer but rather that sacrifice for twenty minutes than splashing brain soup down a storm drain.
The engine rumbles to life beneath them, soon gentling into a pleased kitten purr under Vander’s capable hands as they peel out of the alley and onto the main road.
The pavements are littered with stumbling drunks and smokers gathered outside of pubs or clubs. It’ll be coming up to last call soon, and longer standing, salt of the earth businesses might chance a lock in, an opportunity for laughter up until sunrise and cheeky cash in hand. They get lucky with green lights, flying through stops and out of junctions without much cause for slowing down. Water sprays up from the wheels, wetting already damp, ripped jeans at the ankles but it’s all secondary to the heat bleeding out from Vander’s hips snug between his spread open legs.
Silco rests his forehead (the front of the protective helmet) against the slight curve of Vander’s spine, convinces himself if he closes his eyes and focuses he can smell his sweat, the leather from his jacket, the cologne he wears that ages him but there’s an allure even to that, isn’t there? I know who I am and what I’m doing, I’ve lived long enough to not give a shit what people think. Vander owns a sticky floored bar and sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong, stands up for people. He offers bratty twinks a lift home to be nice, supposedly, even if he flirts back and looks his fill like a pervert. He has a bike he no doubt takes ridiculously good care of in his free time due to lack of offspring but somehow makes ‘midlife crisis’ look appealing, or, ultimately the powder he sniffed earlier was cut with nasty shit that’s melting his capacity for judgement.
They survive the short trip and pull up to the curb outside the rundown house share Silco has the misfortune of residing within. It’s too expensive to rent a place alone nowadays, at least here his housemates keep to themselves and he has his own bathroom. No comment on the shit hole kitchen and perpetual fridge stink no one can get rid of, or empty cup and piled plate city the shared living room coffee table has become. As is polite and expected of him, he invites Vander inside for a drink, fully and naively expecting the offer to be rejected as is polite to do in return, only-
“Yeah, that’d be nice, thanks.” Vander says with a small, amused smile like the smug bastard he is and takes his spare helmet from Silco’s frozen hands. He’s kicked the stand on the bike to leave it sitting there waiting for him to come back and Silco isn’t confident it will be. He knows the offer wasn’t genuine but this is the game they’ve fallen into playing with one another, toeing over the line, testing how far they can push the boundaries.
Silco’s silent internal prayers to non-existent gods are answered, for once, when he unlocks the front door to discover the house in darkness. The others must all be fast asleep or out on the prowl given how late, or early it is. They are surely used to his comings and goings at all hours now, three am kettle boiling and microwave pinging, four am bedroom door banging shut, shower running, five am chain smoking out of his window or the back garden, et cetera.
The only abnormal thing about this is Silco bringing someone home. He’s hit with an off putting wave of uncertainty, then, standing there with Vander waiting at his back. At a bar or in an alley, making trade, it’s a full view chessboard Silco has a fair hand in. This isn’t an even playing field, in his desperation to meet this man blow for blow he’s forced himself onto the back foot, weak point exposed.
Vander’s silhouette comes into view, blocking out the living room skyline made up of the ratty three seater the house pitched in twenty quid each for, overflowing coffee table and a creased, worn rug someone is yet to flatten. He’s never brought anyone here, and the thought of guiding anyone upstairs to his own private domicile nearly sends him retching.
“You’ve gone all quiet.” Vander says, keeps his voice hushed, thoughtful of the others he’s distantly aware of. Silco can practically feel him wanting to ask if he’s okay, if he’s sure he’s alright, if he needs anything. Fuck off.
“It’s late and I don’t want to piss off my housemates.” As if he gives a shit.
“How considerate, but that’s not what I meant.”
“Care to share with the class, then?” Silco snips, his stomach twisting pleasantly at the embarrassment of it all. He painfully enjoys the way Vander thinks he knows him, the way his eyes never stop seeking him out, attempting to solve what he’s all about.
What would his assessment be if Silco truly, honestly flayed himself open for inspection?
Please, feast your eyes upon the fetid pile of weeks old, dirty laundry and months of unchanged, sweat smelling sheets. Coke and speed sprinkled bedside tables decorated with antique drained, sticky monster energy cans and numerous half empty foil popped prescription drugs packets. The only thing worth any pride is his leaning tower of CDs with partners in crime player and speaker system with tangled wires included.
“You’re nervous.”
Silco scoffs, indignation kick starting his frozen body to reboot and loosen his locked up joints. It’s too juvenile to argue no I’m not back so he grinds his teeth, swallows it down like acidic bile. His momentary lapse of confidence stokes the usual fire burning inside him until it’s almost roaring out of control, skin prickling hot and heart picking up the pace. Sweat swells in his pores again, brain like butter in a sizzling pan.
“Did you want tea or coffee? I’d offer something stronger but you don’t seem like the drink and drive type.” Silco says in an attempt to course correct, internally shaking off the awkwardness, a scrappy dog with a heavy, rain sodden coat. Vander’s hand easily snags his bicep as he moves to bypass him, if he tightened his grip there’s a possibility his thumb and middle finger tip would meet.
“It’s because of what we talked about, back at the bar, isn’t it?” Well, it’s not not about that. It’s the closest Silco would get to throwing himself down on a platter, cracking his own sickly shell open and revealing tender, juicy flesh he’d told Vander to go ahead and stick his fingers in, touch me. Being ignored is worse than being rejected, being mollycoddled and dragged back home like a vagrant out past curfew.
“I’m a big boy, Vander. I can handle being turned down, so don’t go losing any sleep over it.”
“I didn’t say no.”
“I can’t be bothered with this weird, cryptic bollocks right now-“ And suddenly Vander’s hand is a red hot iron clasp around his arm, driving him with controlling pressure back up against the closed front door. Silco’s combat boots knock clumsily together as they shift, rubber squeaking and scraping black streaks against hard wood flooring. It’s a grave error on his part to have forgone flicking the light switch on as he came in, the disadvantage he’s left himself with growing more and more apparent as events unfold.
Are Vander’s pupils blown wild and wide just for him? Is his skin flushed with blood under the protection of coarse facial hair? He can’t make out anything properly, the only consolation is the same could be said in reverse.
“I’ll make it simple, then.” Vander grunts, saintly patience stomped out under the sole of Silco’s shoe. He has a way of getting what he wants in the end. He has a lovely big set of fists that could split his lip like over whipped cream, no doubt there will be souvenir bruises wrapped Pamela Anderson style around his biceps to fawn over tomorrow from how firmly he’s being gripped. “If you want something from me, ask nicely. You can flirt and show me as much skin as you want, I’d be a fool not to enjoy it, but I won’t give you what you’re obviously gaggin’ for unless you ask.”
Silco clenches up around nothing, eyes flickering to pick out details the more he focuses, optic nerves adjusting gradually. His pleasure seeking usually involves an unhealthy dose of pain, touches that spark dull aches through his nerves and jump along tendons and blood cells to ignite in his pussy. If he’s really hankering for it, a blurred flurry of fists landing where he’s sweet and vulnerable works better for disconnecting his brain than any class A’s.
But, at the end of the day, what’s more physically revolting and painful than pure, unfiltered humiliation?
He is not unaccustomed to the act of grovelling, even the idea of it brings back a whirlwind of phantom sensations. Bruised kneecaps, earth coating his tastebuds, grit between his teeth as he licked boots clean, blood crusted knickers and shame enshrouded trips to the pharmacy all to chase bigger highs and longer lasting hits when cash was not an option.
“Touch me.” Silco tries, again, an echo from the alley.
Vander’s hold has not slackened or tightened as he waits, knowing it’s inevitable because Silco is an open book fallen right into his lap. Was it so obvious what a fucking unstable mess he was? That he needed someone to come along and whip him into line? He’s one bad day away from bursting at the seams, hobbling from one mind numbing rush to the next, float through precious days half unconscious in bathroom stalls or face down on a stranger’s disgusting mattress.
No winning this game of chicken.
“… Please.”
“Show me where you need it, go on.” Vander commands him, deep voice somehow pitched even lower. There’s a gruffness to it, like the first words spoken when the sun breaks through the blinds or after puffing indulgently on an expensive cigar. It is impossible not to drop his hands to the front of his trousers and start popping the silver studs through their holes, shudder as he drags the zipper down and pries open metal teeth. There’s some distance between them now Vander has released him, heavy lidded eyes and blown pupils magnetised to where Silco peels down his clothes and fuck it, his dampened underwear too. A grand reveal of the pale expanse of his milky upper thighs and at the centre of it all the full, wiry black bush decorating his pubic mound. The hair peters off in a trail up towards his bellybutton and back around his asshole, a personal preference to not waste time bending at all angles and blindly waving a razor between his legs.
Silco feels almost virginal again under such intense observation, although he’s physically the furthest he could be from it. His knees part as much as they can with denim and cotton restricting his thighs, the first touch against his blood swollen clit from the pads of his index and middle fingers have him gasping. He needs it firm and broad, not light and tight, can hear the slick sound of his labia parting open as he rubs wide circles over his cunt to collect wetness and spread it eagerly.
“Vander.” Silco pants softly, blinking up at his stupid, handsome face. He’s confident in the picture he paints, wanton and waif-like slumped against the door, fruit ripe and ready to be plucked from the vine and devoured between gnashing molars. He has had fifty years to master the language of sex, what it means to have your name gasped in a siren call. Vander fills the space between them once again, batting pianist fingers aside to replace them with his own. Now that first touch is better than his own, two of those thick fingers part his folds wide, rub against the exposed head of his clit with a sensation akin to shoving a metal fork in a plug socket.
“Fuckin’ soaked. What do you want? Want me to hurt you, sweetheart?”
Silco’s legs quiver in response, hands scrabbling at Vander’s firm biceps, a flailing, drowning kitten digging its claws into the first solid thing it comes across. If his painted nails hurt when he digs them cruelly in to the exposed flesh just under the cuff of his shirt sleeve, Vander doesn’t even flinch. That maddening flame licking back and forth over his cock doesn’t cease, makes it harder to think clearly, to do much more than nod like an imbecile.
“Yes.”
”Yes, what?”
”Yes, please. Asshole.”
“We can work on that.” Silco’s begrudging obedience is rewarded with Vander snatching his saturated fingers away, only to swat his open hand down. There’s no respite between one and the next, wet claps fill the empty living room with each slap, slap, slap. He bites down violently at the fleshiest part of his fist to stifle the wails threatening to burst out of his chest, hips twitching instinctively to shy away from the abuse even as his brain fights to surge forward into it. TV static crackles over his puffy pussy lips, juices sluicing in viscous, drooling blobs down the insides of his shuddering thighs.
Is it selfish to take what he’s given like a good boy and offer no reciprocation? His fingers couldn’t retract from where he’s buried them into the plush give of Vander’s arms even if he tried, muscles atrophied from the electric currents radiating out from his abused cunt. He doesn’t pause, not even when Silco’s muffled grunts tip over into hiccuping gasps and snotty whimpers, not even when his body violently shudders uncontrollably for several beats after each smack, a ripple of destruction.
On the next crack against his oversensitive clit Silco howls, a humiliatingly childish owww drawn out and puppy like. Sweat slick palms clumsily grope at Vander and he’s suddenly, glaringly aware of the fact they didn’t properly discuss what this means or what’s expected of him. He’s not kidding himself by believing Vander doesn’t know he’s a junkie. He probably sniffed it out immediately that Silco’s high for every shift, is high right now but lucid enough for plausible deniability.
“Just stick your cock in me.” Silco says- no, demands, because he still holds some control here even if his breaths judder out of his lungs. Tonight is a direct result of his effort. Weeks of shameless come-ons and batting mascara clumped lashes, slender fingers lingering against the swell of Vander’s chest, outfits one inch away from getting him slapped with a public indecency charge. All the usual tick list tactics that gets him forcefully bent over and taken after one night haven’t worked as quick this time, so, Silco deserves this, deserves to feel wanted, useful.
Vander coos condescendingly in response, pressing forward scarily easy against a death grip to slide and sink his middle finger into Silco’s arousal slackened hole. It is by no means a tight fit. His vagina is hardly a novice when it comes to being stretched open, but the massaging at his insides is a pleasant balm against the itchy pins and needles vibrating across the sensitive outer area. Tenderness after aggression, water logged clouds bursting after a long, dragging summer’s drought.
“You can take another.” A non-question to which Silco nods blearily in response. A shaky sigh leaves him to make room for the next finger pressing in beside the first. If he can fast forward through this part he can finally get what he’s needed; prove himself, he’s not all mouth, has potential to be the best Vander’s ever had. Despite how young and reckless he is, or the fact he’s a dirty slut, there’s copious evidence his body at least still feels good.
“Stay with me, don’t drift off.” Vander says, square thumb an unignorable, blunt pressure against Silco’s agitated cock. All sense of control rapidly flies through his fingers, burning rope with a sinking anchor weighing down the other end. The killer combination of pumping and curling up against the squishy give of his insides and a hard grinding thumbpad would have anyone mewling pitifully like a babe.
Silco bites back the pornographic clichés of fuckmefuckmefuckme that threaten to burst free with every screw inside, nauseated at how badly he wants it. His cunt squelches audibly, Vander’s fingers crooking to release suction, fight against the fluttering and instinctual clenching of his guts at every shock of pleasure. It feels insane because he’s not gentle with it and fucks his hand up like it’s his cock pounding Silco open and sloppy. Wetness dribbles down the back of his knuckles to gather and drip from the bend of his wrist, tense palm meat striking his tingling, swollen clit directly.
“Fuck, ah- wait, wait! I’m getting close.”
Vander does not stop. He doesn’t stop, predator instincts urging him to clamp a hand in a collar across Silco’s Adam’s apple the moment his body starts writhing. Meek little rabbit pinned beneath the weight of its killer, gaping, smacking maw pouring famished saliva through hundreds of sharp, shiny fangs. It’s getting harder to think clearly as the fog of pleasure bleeds in, laboured breath clipped short and then stifled altogether as the hand around his throat clamps his windpipe shut.
In classic prey response Silco wildly scratches and grips shamefully at Vander’s exposed wrist, hisses and bucks but it is ultimately useless. There’s no fighting him, there’s no fighting how fucking silent the storm grows inside of his skull either when submitting like this, accepting death at the hands of someone else much like sinking into the knockout hit of tranq.
“That’s it, I’ve got you, love. Just let go…”
God only knows how he must look. Silco’s mouth flaps open and shut mindlessly to eke out the tiniest, pitiful croaks of ecstasy as the swelling wave of his orgasm breaks, eyes unable to resist rolling back into the darkness of his head. Vander of course watches it unfold, always watching, the bastard. He grinds the heel of his hand painfully up against his gushing pussy, swallowed up middle fingers milking his spasming, fleshy insides for all they are worth. The lack of oxygen flowing to his scrambled brain and Vander’s soaked, thick fingers relentlessly working him through his climax swirl together in a lethal cocktail.
“Ngh-“ Silco grunts, remarkably intelligent and poignant. The TV static has migrated outwards from his abused cunt to his extremities, flexing fingertips and curling toes prickling, constellations dancing in the night sky closing in at the outskirts of his world view. The only awareness his body can focus on is what feels like a gaping, tender wound between his uncontrollably quivering thighs until Vander releases his throat and the entire room spins with the rush of full lungs.
An attractive, gasping death rattle for breath as Vander leaves him, open and dripping, tickled as rivulets of come lose the battle against gravity and run down the sensitive skin of his quivering inner thighs. It’s no use, with his puppet strings now cut Silco feebly slumps forward into expectant arms. Reciprocation is not a priority. The only desire at the forefront of his mind is crawling upstairs, lighting a fat spliff and dozing off on musty sheets to one of his more low-key albums.
“I have condoms upstairs.” He offers instead.
“As tempting as that is, this was about you.” Vander chuffs a laugh as he wipes residual Silco off of his fingers to soak into the fabric of his overshirt. He hopes it’s never washed, kept balled up and crusty under Vander’s pillow for him to bury his nose in with a fist around his cock on lonely nights. “Next time, mm?”
“What?” Silco shoves away from Vander to straighten up. He half-asses fixing his clothes, tugging his underwear back up that immediately slurps up a healthy amount of slick and clings to his puffy lips. He leaves the fly of his jeans hanging open. “Don’t be silly.”
“I wanted to get you out of that head of yours, make you feel nice.”
Has anyone ever considered him whilst taking their fill before? Silco is a blurry ghost in the drug addled memories of most men he’s spent time with, as they are in his. Nothing to write home about or sigh wistfully over. He’s a nameless, tight hole bent over a cistern, a gagging throat in the backseat of a car, a concave stomach to blow rails off of.
He’s not a person to love, or know, or even think fucking twice about and he’s certainly not to be treated nicely.
