Dirty Ground

by Riachinko

Summary:

Gary gets himself in trouble with some men from the pub, down a secluded alley...

Notes:

Kinktober 2025: "Omorashi"
Check out my list of ships and prompts this year on Tumblr :3c

Gary stumbles from the pub doorway, buzzing and warm. 

His shoes scuff on the pavement as he wobbles, fumbling in his breast pocket for a packet of fags as his brain swims in booze. He veers right, into the alley that slides between the gift shop and his third favourite curry house. It's a quiet evening, and particularly private down this way… though perhaps not so private tonight. 

He knows this, because the big ugly blokes behind him are not as clever as he is. Even blind drunk, Gary can see the shadows against the store fronts as they peel beside him, growing in the streetlight and muttering slurs.

He's here because he's gotta piss, his bladder an engine that drives him, crueler than even the Beast's.

One of the shadows barks at him, "Oi!"

But Gary carries on, braced against the brick with one hand out for support, grabbing at his fly with increased desperation as it catches and snags and his hand trembles in tune with his heightened blood pressure—which has been shite for years to begin with. He curses under his breath, cigarette clamped between his front teeth.

The shadows on the wall sharpen.

He hasn't even got his cock out when he half-turns to see—he recognises the man behind him: sour grin and try-hard hair under a hood. He snorts, a huff that Gary can see hanging in the cool night air.

He pushes and Gary hits the wall shoulder-first, cheek-second. The bricks chew at him; the force of the shove sends a jolt through his gut.

It's just the one dumb-looking fucker behind him. The other two men stay at the mouth of the alley in half-shadow and orange lamplight—the weak ones letting their alpha pick at the prey. But this guy's hulking, looming. His sneer devolves into a grimace, and Gary concedes with some ego that he might have earned this bloke's anger. 

But whose fault is that? They were at a pub, and people drink in pubs! Naive to assume he'd be on his best behaviour… not to say he hadn't been poking a little fun, goading the guy on. Called him a bender, didn't he? Yes, that'd slipped out. He'd meant it to sting, and apparently it had.

And well, now they're even—Gary's stinging quite a lot.

The man grips Gary by the lapels of his trenchcoat, hauls him close and high 'til the toes of Gary's Docs drag on the ground. "What you saying man," he begins, crooked teeth gleaming. "Left quick after calling me a batty boy still." His breath smells rough of lager.

Gary's eyes are dry—he needs to piss and his throat's scratchy and sore and his eyes are dry. Annoying on top of that this thick cunt's got a hand on him, growling at him.

"Just a laugh, mate," Gary snorts. "No harm meant." 

His bladder twinges as he hangs—he clenches every muscle he can and lets his eyes begin to droop. Life's so much more comfortable with his eyes closed… he might just black out. "You're alright, some of England's biggest and brightest are benders. Your mates'll understand."

His cock, shook half exposed through his fly, feels the pressure, now, of his palm over fabric and potential freedom.

The man knits his brow at the action. Gary would tell him he's misinterpreting his hand on his cock, wants to tell him to move or get pissed on, but he's shoved again—harder, stomach to wall this time. His jaw crunches against the brick and he grunts, trying to push back, to roll the man off him. His left brain screams at him to run; the right persuades him to put up a fight, even as his bladder lurches and spasms. He can feel the tiniest leak, a hot bloom that has him clamping down with whatever passive strength he can muster. 

Panic slaps clarity into him, then, if only for a second—a thought echoes in his muddled mind: not here, you tit, don't piss yourself in front of them like this. His vision darkens, narrows. 

The man takes up all the air in the alley, imposing, steeling his jaw. "Naw man, you looking a bit fruity yourself," he snips. "Queers I know 'ave better manners. Maybe you was asking for it."

Gary flails weakly at the chest before him. His fists are like sponges when they connect, leaving no impression, just prompting a snicker from the man, encouragement to grab Gary again, to shove again. And this time Gary stumbles backwards, spinning against the wall in an attempt to keep himself upright, but also in a vague attempt to get away. 

But he's drunk far too much, seven pints in less than half as many hours. He's soft, uncoordinated, and as the man advances on him—leans over him like a vulture over dead meat—he falls backwards onto his arse. "Augh, shit–!" 

Urgency twists him from inside, his body screams for release—every unexpected jolt sends a sting through his core to his bladder. He scrambles to get to his feet, but the man grabs his lapel again and jerks; hits Gary across the face to keep him on his knees.

"It's not so serious as all that," Gary grunts, his words coming out slurred. 

"Jus' chatting shit."

"Yeah," and Gary sniffles, refusing to let the anxious tears welling get the better of him. He has to squint, looking up at the smarmy dickhead. So close he's dark, framed in dull orange and tinted blue-grey under the post-midnight sky. "Forget it, yeah? I'll buy us a pint."

"You even got any money? Shit." The man hums, a vacant sound of pity. 

The drawstring waist of the man's joggers goes down, and Gary can smell sweat, the raw reek of man; his cock, thick and stiff with a couple of strokes, pulled incongruously through the y-front of his pants. Gary's body betrays him again, another spurt of piss dampening the fabric of his own underpants. He shifts on his knees, tries to squeeze his legs together to stop it, to disguise it.

"Suck it," the man demands, thrusting his hips forward and directing the tip of his cock to Gary's blubbering lips. Gary draws his lips thin, shakes his head, but his throat closes; too wasted to protest, too stunned to shout. Too ashamed to shout, if he's being honest. And the man smacks his cock against Gary's cheek to drive that shame home.

He tries to push back again, but it's no use. His head drops, but he doesn't pull away when the man grabs a fistful of hair and throws his head back; he slaps Gary again, his ruddy cock poking at Gary's swollen lips. 

He slaps him again.

Again, and finally Gary's mouth lolls open with a nasal breath and a whimper.

"Bite me an' I'll wet you up man," the man says, and Gary believes he means it, in spite of his amused grin.

He shoves into the back of Gary's throat immediately and Gary lurches, gags. He doesn't give the man the satisfaction of licking or sucking, he just lets himself be used with his hair oily and clumped in either of the man's fists. The night air is cool against his temple, against his wet mouth, so different from the heat of the man on his tongue. He hates it, the taste and the burn in his throat, and the way the man's stomach ripples below the ribbing of his tracksuit top…

He hates it, but his drunken body thrums with some sort of perverse, feverish thrill nonetheless.

But it's not good, overall. He isn't so wasted that he can't understand that, isn't so far gone that he doesn't try to heave, doesn't piss himself little by little. His nose is so stuffed with mucus that he barely has a choice but to breathe around the tip of the man's cock with each half drag out.

At last, Gary sobs.

There's a bit of snickering down the alley, a bit of unintelligible slang that Gary doesn't understand above him. 

Then the man pulls out, still hard, still not arrived—Gary watches wide-eyed as the fists that were tangled in his hair a moment ago find new purchase: one clawed into Gary's jaw, prying it open as the second jerks himself off, fast, throbbing—

The man grunts and gasps, and the display lasts less than a minute before he's coming in stripes over Gary's cheek and reluctantly-open mouth. Viscous and goopy, hot and then suddenly quite cool as it slides slowly into the grizzle of Gary's beard.

Gary wheezes. "I fucking said you were a bender." 

The man delivers a half-hearted kick to Gary's chest that knocks him back against the brick once more. But it's the next blow that does it, with his leg pulled back as though Gary were a football—a real, solid kick, toe to stomach. Gary doubles over, air racing from his lungs, bladder screaming.

That's the breaking point. 

Hot shame bursts through him as the dam breaks and he feels it: the gush down his thighs, pooling in the seat of his jeans, seeping in impossible twisty paths over his legs and spreading in dark rivulets on the alley ground. The hiss of it is horribly audible.

The man steps back at last, brow practically leapt to his hairline with surprise, and then falling quickly with disgust. "Bun you, man," he spits—literally, spits. "Filthy geezer, pissed yourself still. Fucking hell."

Gary coughs, curling himself forward, making himself small as shame grinds into him. He tastes iron, semen, beer. And the longer he sits, the colder he gets—heavier, itchier. 

"Next time don't chat, yeah? Man ain't tryna hear it," the man says, wiping his hands on his joggers like they were just as dirty as Gary is. 

He's joined suddenly by one of his mates, some urgent murmuring, and they're gone. Gary suspects the police are making their rounds, but he wouldn't say anything. He's no snitch. He got what he deserved. 

He topples forward, one hand splayed flat on the grimy ground for support. His head pounds, his stomach spasms. His thighs sting. 

And he finally pukes. 

Gary presses his forehead to the pavement. Yes, he deserves this and worse, it was bound to happen one day, he just figured it would be because of the drugs or money or girls. Instead this happened because he couldn't handle his drink, of all things. Couldn't handle his mouth... Couldn't handle anything. His foggy mind rewinds the evening and plays it all back in pitiful clarity.

Tonight wasn't easy, but it's nothing a shower can't fix. He'll grab a hair of the dog, sort himself out and be back at it. He'll pick his fights better tomorrow.

Eventually he's gonna come out on top.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 19 of Kinktober 2025