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It's the fucking middle of the night and somehow you're in your car halfway to D.C.
Fuck this.
Fuck Declan.
Fuck everything.
Your phone on the shotgun seat starts vibrating. It doesn't take that extra glance at the caller ID to see that it's Swan, because of course it's Swan, because who else would call you.
You ignore him and press down your foot on the gas pedal a bit harder, watch the speedometer climb up, feel the familiar vibration of the RX slowly become part of your body and taking you out of this clusterfuck of a nightmare.
You're not ready for September or for your last year at Aglionby or for dealing with a bunch of people who are going to be absolutely silent about fourth of July, since that's how being a rich snob works apparently. Every time you see the middle Lynch's stupid face you want to bash your fist into it because how can he walk around like that, like nothing fucking happened at all.
The streetlights are barely more than a blur, you're going much too fast. Somewhere in the distance you can hear police sirens, but you're way past caring now, hand cradling the stickshift firmly locked in 6th gear like it's the only thing to hold on to, and you don't allow yourself to think about how at the end of this road there's nothing waiting for you.
You're chasing this high all alone but you feel Kavinsky lingering, mocking you, his laughter somewhere in the revving of the engine, though when you turn your head of course he’s not there. Just your mind playing tricks on you as usual.
It'd make you angry - angrier, more like - if you didn't already have enough anger to supply half an army.
(At Kavinsky for offing his own stupid ass. At Prokopenko for making that shady deal in the first place. At Jiang - fucking Jiang - for the whole business with the sleeping pills like not every last idiot on this planet already knew that this shit doesn't fucking kill you.
At Swan, just because.
Yeah, anger. You've got a lot of that.)
The speed and the dark and the insistent, greedy hum of the engine finally merge into one hungry presence monstrous enough to take you on, anger and all, and it's almost comforting in how it reminds you that there are worse things out there.
If you're being honest, you can't wait for them to tear you apart.
You've gone almost all the way to D.C. now and as you steer the car towards the exit ramp it's time to stop pretending you didn't know exactly where you'd be going when you started your car in useless rage earlier this night.
Declan Lynch opens the door at the third ring, and now that you're confronted with his searching gaze it occurs to you that you probably look like hell.
As far as you know, though, Declan likes hell.
He doesn't say anything, just opens the door a little wider in an implicit invitation. You like that about him - this wordless defeat. The knowledge that his silk ties and his big shot internship and all his perfectly tailored words can't change the fact that he wants what he wants. Or who.
(Granted, you're pretty sure what Declan actually wants is – was – Kavinsky. But you're here and Kavinsky is dead. So.)
You follow Declan into the apartment. As you close the door behind you, you feel the familiar atmosphere surrounding you: the lights are dimmed, the dark hardwood floor radiates warmth, and the tastefully expensive interior spells I hired someone to decorate my living room to everyone who bothers to look. Disgusting, really.
There's a young woman lounging on the couch. Declan doesn't introduce you but you think you’ve seen her before, Ashley or whatever her name is. (Not that you’re keeping tabs on Declan fucking Lynch, or who he associates with. You may be pathetic, but you’re not that pathetic.)
Declan nods towards the bedroom but you don’t feel like missing out on that particular spectacle – the chance to see someone get upset at sleek fucking Declan Lynch – so you stay leaning against the door frame, checking out Ashley while she musters you carefully in return. Declan speaks to her in a low voice. Her high heels, abandoned next to the couch, form a bright red pair of skerries on the dark carpet. With Declan kneeling next to her and the wine glass being twirled in her hand, it's like a picture straight out of some kind of upper class IKEA catalogue. Except when he’s done talking, she downs the rest of her wine in one swift motion and gets up to grab her heels, and her smile at you is sharp and sharklike.
You’re almost disappointed but also – aroused, almost wish she would stay, maybe give you a good kick in the guts with those stilettos tearing open your skin, but she's already telling Declan goodbye with a chaste kiss on his cheek.
When the door falls closed behind her, Declan keeps on ignoring you, but you can tell he's very, very aware of your presence. It's the way he's taking twice as long on purpose as he carries the empty wine glasses to the sink of his small kitchenette and carefully rinses them (because of course he's that kind of person), and how you can see the tense set of his shoulders without even trying, can feel him working up the nerve to finally dealing with you.
A few uncomfortably silent minutes later he walks up to you, coming to a halt barely a foot away. You will yourself not to twitch. Then, after you almost fear nothing is going to happen at all, he raises his hand and strikes you flat across the face.
The pain is sudden and sharp and precise, the one thing that can silence your ghosts. You smile into it even as the heat is fading quickly from your skin, and you reach out for Declan's tie, tugging gently. "I missed you too, darling."
It's a special talent of yours to always find the words that will earn you another punch to the face, and Declan doesn't let you down. No hesitation, no embellishments, just his knuckles meeting your cheekbone, flash of white behind your eyes, then he leans in to kiss you. The heat pulsating from your cheek turns into heat curling in your stomach turns into feeling warm for the first time in days.
Almost of its own accord, your body is rearranging itself into something that fits perfectly into Declan Lynch, or maybe it's Declan's body molding itself around you until he has you pressed against the wall. His left hand closing around your throat like a promise has your head go empty and make space for something like relief.
“How about an apology?” Declan leans in, his breath hot on your neck.
“Nah.” Your refusal is half-hearted at best.>
You’re horny and desperate and any disobedience is little more than an act, if only because it makes it all the more exciting when Declan finally pushes you far enough for you to end up in a begging heap on the floor.
His grip around your throat gets tighter, teeth gleaming in the low light. “I didn’t hear you, Skov.”
“I said, nah. Now you’re gonna fuck me or not?”
There’s a sudden lack of closeness that has you disoriented for a moment before Declan picks you up, five feet five of nothing but anger and spite, and throws you over his shoulder to carry you into the bedroom. When he turns to flick on the light, your head hits the door frame and almost makes you faint.
You barely register being dropped on the bed before feeling something wet trickle down your lips. Declan holds you down, hands gripping tight enough to leave bruises on your wrists, and when his tongue traces your upper lip before probing into your mouth, you taste blood.
It makes you feel… unhinged. Hungry.
Then he pauses, draws away, and his face hovers mere inches from yours. There’s no light in his eyes, no love in his smile, and his knee is lodged between your legs but not quite where you want it to be. You wiggle your hips in a desperate attempt to get into the right position, but if anything, it’s causing the opposite. His mouth is moving and you read from his lips more than you hear it. “Beg me.”
Your breath catches in your throat. “Please.” It almost sounds like a whine and you hate it and love it, because you’re cheap and it’s been too long and you just want to get out of your head for a little while, and Declan looks down at you with an expression that’s half disgusted and half like he wants to eat you alive.
“Please what?” He moves his knee upwards, now actually palpable through the fabric of your jeans, and you start rutting against his leg for a few blessed moments before he draws it away again.
“Fuck me,” you whisper, and you’re not sure if you’re mocking or begging. “Hurt me. Please, Sir.”
It’s the cheapest trick in the box, granting him an authority you both know he doesn’t have, and yet it’s so satisfying – how his hips buck forward barely a second after the words left your mouth, how his teeth sink into your neck, how his hands let go of you and start roaming your body instead.
Yeah, you make a nice pair of fucked up idiots.
His hands glide down your sides, cup and squeeze your ass before slipping under your shirt. With your arms free now, you tug at his button-up, too impatient to deal with any proper undressing procedure, and he finally catches your hands again to stop you from tearing his shirt. “Oh no, you don’t,” he snarls, grabbing you around your waist, and seconds later you find yourself turned onto your stomach.
He half kneels, half lies down on your backside as he rummages in the drawer of his nightstand, and you let him tie you up providing snarky comments and an appropriate amount of struggling, but it’s not until you feel the cold sting of metal on your skin that you think maybe it’s gonna be a good night.
Except when the blade opens the first wound on your lower back where your shirt is rucked up, it’s… not quite what you imagined.
For starters, you’ve still got your shirt on and you don’t know if it’s because Declan doesn’t want to see the battlefield that is your back, or if it’s because he doesn’t want to deal with your tits.
And, unwanted, the next thought is that Kavinsky never cared, and you don’t even want to start thinking about it because it’s a comparison that everyone’s gonna lose, so you – you struggle carelessly against Declan’s hands, and what was probably supposed to be a light nip at your skin becomes a gash, and you feel the blood seeping out hot and wet.
“Fucking hell, Skov, watch it!” There’s a hint of panic in Declan’s voice. You hate how much he cares about this, how this is him looking out for himself and not for you, how much he’s actually not in control at all, because you care so little about anything –
Your voice sounds unfamiliar even to yourself when you growl, “Quit pussying around and just fuck me already!”
You didn’t want to end up here, you wanted someone to catch you, guide you when you were feeling lost, not be tied down by your own request and be the one giving orders.
But at least Declan moves it now, props you up on your knees, shoves down your jeans and boxers without bothering to undress you properly. It makes for an awkward though not altogether unpleasant position when he starts fingering your vagina. Not that you’d need it because you’re wet enough and ready to go, but if he feels better pretending you’re just a regular boy getting fucked in the ass, so be it.
Finally, he gets rid of his pants and underwear and puts on a condom. Secretly, you’re grateful; you can’t even remember how many people you’ve had to beg to use these things. Out loud, you mock him. “Yeah, Lynch, better put that on, who knows what you’re gonna catch from a slut like me?”
It earns you a smack on your ass, but it’s half-hearted at best because he probably thinks you’re right. And then the warm feeling of pain is replaced by feeling the hot skin of his front on your backside, and his dick is poking the back of your thighs before slipping between them and into your pussy.
You barely get to savour the moment before he stills. You can almost feel his gaze on the back of your head. “You okay, Skov?”
Are you okay? What kind of fucking question is this? No, you’re not fucking okay, otherwise you wouldn’t be lying here in the first place –
“Jesus fucking Christ, fuck you, Lynch, just fucking-”
Just fucking fuck me, you were about to say, but apparently he’s realized what a loser he’s being and gives you a hard push with his hips that sends you flat against the mattress with your legs stretched out. You feel his weight on you as he moves against you now, slowly first, pulling almost all the way out before pushing in again.
“You’re pathetic, you know that?” Declan’s front is flush against your back and when he speaks, you feel the vibrations on the skin of your neck.
“Showing up in the middle of the night to beg me for… this? You really need it bad, huh?”
You’re about to point out he sent his girlfriend (or whatever she is) away for you, but now he’s picking up the pace, pushing into you faster, rougher, and the words die on your lips as you move with him. You feel boneless, your body is at his mercy now, and every time he sinks down on you, pressing you into the sheets, your clit rubs against the mattress while you feel him inside. It’s absolutely unbearable and you want more. Your mouth is running disconnected from your brain, a steady stream of fuck me and yes and God, faster.
Declan’s hand on your neck, pressing down like he’s about to pick you up like a puppy.
Declan’s hand in your hair, tugging, the sensation bordering on pain and firmly keeping you in your place.
You feel your climax building up, a coil spring waiting to snap. When you close your eyes for a second, your mind wanders, pretends your face is pressed into the faux leather seats of somebody’s car, that it’s Kavinsky holding you down, that everything around you is vibrating with shitty bass speakers and speed and badly kept drag strips –
so you try to focus on Declan’s voice instead, on the silk ropes, the expensive bed covers, how his fingernails dig hard into your side and you’re lacking the breath to scream as he starts hitting just the right spot and shudders start wrecking your body. He keeps going relentlessly and you’re made of bliss and ecstasy and you’re riding the feeling all the way to the end.
When your brain catches up again you’re lying on your stomach with not an ounce of strength left in you, gasping for air.
Declan lounges an arm’s length away with his head propped in his hand and looks at you with a funny expression on his face. You struggle to remember the last few minutes and wonder if maybe he didn’t get to come, but the condom still hangs off his now limp dick filled with half-sticky, half-slimy semen, and you take a moment to thank God or whoever that this stuff didn’t touch your legs. There’s something to be said for sleeping with people in committed relationships.
“You can take a shower and then leave,” Declan says. Even his voice sounds weird.
Your reply is a flat, “Rude.” At some point he must’ve untied you, and when you turn around, pain shoots through your lower back. You had kind of hoped you might get to stay. (Only because you feel so tired and spent now, but. Sure.)
You think about the hassle of prying the fabric of your shirt from where it sticks to the wounds on your back, think about wiggling out of your binder and in again when all you wanna do is sleep, and decide to just pull up your jeans, walk out of here and save the shower for home.
There’s no goodbye kisses but you don’t mind. If you wanted that kitschy stuff, you would’ve picked someone else, right?
The switch from Declan’s warm, sweaty bedsheets to the cool night air makes it feel colder that it actually is. Your body feels tired, though heavy in a good way, and almost calm as you sink into the driver’s seat of your car.
Yeah, maybe you should get some sleep before hitting the road again, but… there’s this small, nagging voice in the back of your head. Part of you says you won’t be able to sleep anyway, part of you hopes the drive will soothe you further, and it’s likely that neither of them is wrong.
So you start the RX, turn off the radio and make your way through the dead of the night in familiar silence, just you and the hum of the engine and your worn-out racing tires eating away the miles.