NOW @BRUISEDNOTES

How fucking annoying it was because, when it came down to it, Wyatt hadn't had anything of him at all. Not a taste, not a minute inside his heat. Just - this, and not even really that. A single night of forced interaction, surrounded by previous nights of - of nothing. Tripping over his clothes, or his damned cat, and watching him eat shitty fast food on his furniture. Attitude and anger and violence and -

And nothing. Nothing to inspire the need he felt there. Nothing really at all to fuel the new itch he needed to scratch, the change in the violence that ticked under his skin.

Wyatt wanted Donomie, in all ways that mattered, in all the fucking ways that didn't. Need him in all the ways that left him feeling frustrated, angry.

And now that he had him? Strange how he wanted to savor it. Enjoy the soft noises and strange pliancy, the new obedience offered to him on a silver platter. Infuriatingly fucking funny how his own dick twitches in interest as Donomie answers him with a whimper, in a voice that he's never heard from him before, how his own blood boils as he considers what's being offered, and how quick he's been to take it.

Wrapped around his little fucked up fingers without even offering a feel. A thought that comes and goes with an annoyed noise, as hand slides lower. Rough fingers, and even rougher palm, brushing meanly against his nub before he finds home - or close to it. A laughter loosening the tension in his chest as he finds - predictably - Donomie waiting slick and hot beneath his fingertips.

"Seems I did break you a little, didn't I?" Choosing that moment to breach him, to slide not one but two fingers inside without much warning, without much prep. Breath hissing out from between his own teeth. Fuck.

           IT'S EVERYTHING HE'S EVER WANTED,  and everything he never knew he wanted, even from the first night he'd laid his sad, drunken eyes on wyatt in that bar however long ago. weeks, months feel like years ago, considering where they started, where they are now; and even so, some part of him can't believe it's happening. a part of him had completely given up on even the idea of this being a possibility, of wyatt wanting him, of wyatt's hands on him in ways that aren't a shove or headlock or fist to whatever part of him within range. wyatt touching him in ways he'd only ever thought about in his own private fantasies, indulging in the many hours he was alone in the apartment.

         but this isn't fantasy. the iron grip on his thigh is real. the warm body supporting his weight is real. the rough fingers and palm sliding along his skin are real ― beautifully, deliciously  real ― and it makes him feel greedy, fuels the desperation that has his body squirming as much as it's able, the soft noises sitting in the back of his throat, the bark of a moan that punches its way out of his parted lips as both fingers, then palm trail over his sensitive clit, already dully throbbing with need.

          he wants wyatt.  he wants him terribly, desperately, in any manner he pleases. it's scary, embarrassing to admit, even to himself, but he knows in that moment, with wyatt's hands where he's always wanted them, with his teasing voice mocking him in his ear,  he knows he'll let wyatt do anything he wants to him.

          he doesn't know when the shift happened, when he'd attached himself so wholly and completely to wyatt and given himself over, collared and leashed himself without so much of a request or demand to do so. he's wyatt's. more than that, he  wants  to be wyatt's, in every possible way, in every sense of the word. he wants it all, he'll give it all, whether it's requested or taken. 

          last night was the forceful fastening of the collar, snuggly around his neck, restricting his breathing just enough for him to feel it, a comfortable, figurative weight and pressure against his throat.

          and when wyatt's fingers finally push their way inside him, the collar tightens, wiping his mind clean of all thought for a split second. when they return to him, it's alongside his own voice, bouncing back to him from the shower walls in a high, reedy, whining moan even he's never heard leave his mouth.  he doesn't want it to stop. please don't let it stop.  

          wyatt's right; he did break something in him, broke the walls he'd carefully built around himself, hidden under his flirty humor, forcing a full stop to any that tried to go beyond using his hand or mouth, or venturing anywhere below his waist. wyatt hadn't climbed the wall; he'd destroyed and rebuilt it, with him now on the inside.

          he swallows heavily, voice coming out in breathless, pathetic pants while he tries his hardest to take more, gripping wyatt's arm in the exact way he'd probably wanted to last night: to  beg.  “    y-you  happened.   ”    

“Only the mouth hole please and thank you.”

“I’m evolving into daddy.”

“You’re the rule breaker here, I have done nothing wrong.”

“Where’s that tiktok audio when you need it: no, break it break it, it’s fine.”

“I love you too, overall child of the corn.”

“But yeah thanks I guess, apparently I am the devil capable of turning bitches gay.”

“Because you are as much a wildcard just sans sledgehammer, but better vocabulary.”

“You said ‘mine’s bigger’ to your uncle…”

“Meta me, daddy.”

"He really just be putting his minecraft bed next to someone’s and being like uwu.”

"When will people learn I’m yours first, and that’s never changing.”

“But uh - godspeed on the vagina abuse.”

"That tub time you owe me… that sounds weird.”

"The one bottom to rule them all.”

“It’s like his dick is a compass to sociopaths.”

"I’m suing their vagina.”

"My ass is big but not that big.”

"When you say it like that it sounds like I’m hoarding dildos in my ass.”

“Note to self, never mention my clit for some reason.”

“Hoe’s my sister wife.”

"I’ve got ice packs on either side of my head because I smacked one side with a microwave door and the other with the basement door while trying to make a midnight snack.”

“Get on the casting couch.”

“The tissues are for all the cum.”

“My forehead has never been numb before.”

“I’m going to pee outside where it’ll feel nice.”

"I’m too small for that much emotion.”

“Daddy wants dick.”

“RE: ass eating.”

"Also enjoy sucking.”

"How long were you fingering for, hmm?”

“I forgot that you went full fuckboi.”

“Let me sugar mommy you.”

“World’s worst porno subtitles.”

“Eat spit, get dicked with the mask on.”

“Kentucky fried cock.”

“I’ve never hated anything more that’s come out of your mouth.”

“So, I have to go beat the shit out of your child now.”

“Is it the intact hymen or -”

where does she get all that energy from?

i think there's crystal meth in those meatballs.

she’s not coming back. don’t you watch dateline?

really? more judgement from you?

can you imagine all the free shit she must get?

please tell me you don’t actually own a helium tank.

i have a gift for you, close your eyes.

i’m not as nice as you think, so.

wanna trade confessions?

i mean, you’re not exactly a sexual maverick. 

we’re terrible parents.

great job, smooch.

look at your shirt. did any food make it into your mouth?

oh, we can’t. mommy already has a playdate with a symphony of anti-depressants.

do you drink? i need a martini.

oh, baby, you just need someone to love you.

you abandoned me. we were supposed to be a team, you and me. remember?

i’m sorry, baby, i know you thought it was real.

come on, don’t you miss sex?

you always have been fucking crazy, haven’t you?

god, you fucking… you actually fucking shot me.

this looks super painful.

stop. you’ve just been hit by a car.

then, you must have brain damage.

i had a man, i ruined that, so.

if you can’t tell me, you can’t tell anyone.

people do terrible things for their own fucked-up reasons.

i think loneliness probably kills more people than cancer.

you should embrace it, people love saints.

christ, he’s fucking stubborn.

i mean, do you wanna come over for a beverage of any kind?

i think i could use some backup.

damn! are you trying to kill us?

what do you want, cupcake?

i mean, it’s never too early to start teaching them.

cute socks.

i actually had to stalk him to make him fall in love with me.

so, you’re divorced then?

baby, if you apologize again, i’m gonna have to slap the sorry out of you.

come on baby, you’re too sexy to give up.

oh my god, did you just come up with that cliche by yourself?

do you mind if i ask how he died?

i’m gonna to do my job, you’re going to take some pills, and then i’m gonna call you later.

the nicest thing i can do for [name] is blow my brains out.

oh, you do not want to be friends with me, trust me.

so… you fucked him.

i’m gonna cook you the best meal of your life, and you’re gonna feel real bad about being so mean right now.

she’s like a beautiful ghost. never entirely there.

okay, i want you to go home, and chill the fuck out, and don’t ever call me again.

you wanna get out of here? mommy needs a drink.

i have some somber news.

we’re all gonna take a deep centering breath right now.

i’m guessing you’ve never really dealt with law enforcement before.

i can see how that might drive a man over the edge.

it’s the least she can do, she didn’t even bake anything.

i took it, i don’t have any intention of giving it back.

you can’t keep a secret, even in the dark.

not amusing, my darling, not in the slightest.

what were you saying about me being a fucking psycho?

she’s not as sweet as her snatch, is she?

all i wanted was to be your friend.

my life is littered with almost-somebodies.

i used to live here, remember?

i did some art modeling in school, to pay my way through.

He savors it like a fine wine, like a good drawn out fight. Twisting his fingers harder up against his scalp before letting go slowly. Rubbing circles against abused skin as he hums and examines his features carefully. "Good boy," He tells him, a hint of a teasing in his words. "Keep using them and I'll reward you later."

He might, he might also not. Wyatt's moods fickle, his temper unpredictable, but these were all things Domi already knew, had to know considering how much time he spent in his company. Wyatt's whip-quick mood swings hardly a thing that could be hidden in such close quarters.

Wyatt doesn't look, even though he'd asked the younger to show him. It's pointless to look at that angle, pointless to do anything but feel. But he doesn't do that either, for a moment, he just watches. Watches and pets him, rubs his knuckles against soft inner thighs and waits to see how long he can push him -

When his own patience runs out quicker than he likes, he reaches for him. Wraps a big hand around his already bruised wrist and yanks and spins him. Twists Donomie around until his back is pressed firmly to his chest and turns them both so that he's facing the too hot water. Tilting him so that he's not water-boarded, but also hoisting him in his arms. One hand finding a way beneath a thigh to lift it uncomfortably high and out, the other delicately landing on the ink that clearly spells out PRINCESS.

           IT'S PATHETIC, REALLY,  all that bite and fire he usually has, doused and almost completely snuffed out by unfiltered want burning him from the inside out, overpowering everything, including rational thought. is it because it's wyatt ?  maybe, not that there's much to use in comparison; despite his many sexual encounters, recurring, or otherwise, only one person other than himself has touched where he's most sensitive, and that person was out of his life before he was even  ...  well, a  he.  maybe that's it, the anticipation of having a hand other than his own on him ― but even then, the fact that he's  wants  it to be wyatt  ...  yeah. it's just wyatt. he's stupidly, pathetically, weak for wyatt.

          good boy,  wyatt calls him, with his hand so close to where donomie wants it, and donomie can't help the soft noise he makes in the back of his throat anymore than he can help the fresh trail that oozes from him and down his thigh, dripping over wyatt's fingers. not quite a whine, but probably would have been, had he not muffled it behind closed lips and clenched teeth. a subconscious habit, born of days lived in the barracks, where quarters are close, and then days in his old apartments, the walls never quite thick enough to muffle as much as he would like.

          wyatt is toying with him, he knows it. teasing and taunting him, calling him good boy and offering a reward he may or may not receive for good behavior ― and then doing exactly what he knows will test donomie's will to behave, stoking the flames of impatient want that he knows already burn too hot. bastard. mean, sadistic  bastard.

          just when he thinks about to break, wyatt gives him a moment's reprieve  (  never mind the muted whine of protest in the back of his throat when wyatt pulls his hand away  ) ― only to snatch it away almost immediately; before he can even process what's happened, he's been flipped and yanked against wyatt's body, warm and solid against his back, almost comforting  ...  until he's manhandled under the scalding spray of water, the sensation damn near  fucking unbearable,  too much, too hot at once. all he can do is tip his head back and spit out a sharp    “    fuck !    ”    as his entire body tenses, almost seizing under the onslaught, back arching, torso twisting as much as it can, as if that can save him.

          it's a disorienting juxtaposition, the cruel way wyatt keeps him propped up and open and the gentle, almost loving way he caresses his inked skin; his words and the almost soothing voice in which he says them. and the nickname. the  fucking  nickname ― the moan it draws from his throat is just as embarrasing as it is loud, bouncing back to him from the walls and ringing in his ears. he opens his mouth to respond, but only a whimper gets past his lips, the sharp sting of teeth on his ear wiping his brain clean of thought for a split second. he swallows, takes a breath, and tries again,    “    no sir. i  ...  i  ...  like it  ...  when it hurts ― sir.     ”    

Were it anyone else, were they anyone else, the proper reply to that would be to fuck him - but he knows better. Knows that pinning Donomie to cold glass, or forcing him onto the tile floor, it would be seen more of a reward than a punishment - even if he had to bully himself inside. He could hurt the man all he wanted while fucking him and he'd beg for more, a once theory of his that had been proven the previous evening - when fear had melted into arousal, and pain into pleasure, and he'd stopped fighting the orgasms entirely.

"How about we practice some manners, Donomie?" It's predatory, now, the way he is. The gleam in his eye vicious, even as his touch remains soft. Voice even softer, but certainly lacking the blunt edge he'd had to it seconds previous. Threatening without doing much at all - just a little hair pulling combined with the warm touch of his fingers on his hip, caressing the skin there. The right combination of touches, of rough and gentle, to fuck with Domi's just a little bit more. "A little yes sir, no sir would be good to use here. I know you know how to use those words, pretty mouth like yours is probably used to saying them, aren't you?"

It's not hard to slut shame a man like Donomie. Something about him just screamed that he needed it - or maybe it was that Wyatt needed it. Needed to bully him until he broke apart, so he could use the pieces how he saw fit.

           DEEPER INTO THE WATER,  and he's losing his footing ― both literal and figurative, as he's forced into such an awkward position, his hand instinctively grips wyatt's arm for stability. he should be afraid. any normal person would be afraid. but donomie ?  donomie is exhilerated. and turned on beyond belief. the path they're on now is going to ruin him, ruin the both of them, but he already knows he follow wyatt down it until the very end, in too deep before he even realized it. every new prick of pain on his scalp, every new sweetly poisoned word out of wyatt's mouth is another binding, another tether anchoring him to wyatt. and he can't find it in himself to even try to break it.

          it's pain, it's pleasure, violent, but gentle. brutally soft, and it has him weak, has something in his mind whispering for him to give in, for him to do whatever wyatt wants. he licks his lips, dry despite the humidity in the room, eyelids drooping as he considers the other man's words. he's familiar with them, yes ― both for the obvious reasons and the implied reasons ― but even with the clear degrading intent behind those words, he can't help but hone in on the three little words, a compliment, if you squint hard enough:  pretty little mouth. it's the tiniest dose of dopamine shot directly into his veins, and his lips, already parted, respond immediately.    “    yes sir.    ”

         his legs part with little hesitation, feet inching further apart to offer a better view. he's no longer sure if this is a serious concern, or if wyatt is simply continuing the game. nothing  feels  torn. there's no blood, no burn. just a tenderness that isn't wholly unwelcome.    “    not torn. just sore. maybe bruised, i haven't looked.    ”

It wouldn't, Wyatt knows that now. Domi sought out his temper like how he sought out fights in bars - the danger gave him more than just pleasure, it gave him release too. The only difference? The release he wanted with Wyatt involved a certain amount of nudity and intimacy that he normally afforded no one, certainly not street rats that had moved into his home without his permission.

With one hand buried in his curls, Wyatt reaches up with the other to press his palm to his throat. Fingers seeking out the bruises they'd made the night previous, before pressing in. Expression neither detached, nor clinical, as he examines at first the sight of Domi's obedience, and then the bruises themselves. Thumb rubbing along the center of his throat before slipping to rest in the hollow of it. "Breathing okay?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, taps his thumb twice against that soft place between neck and shoulder, before sliding his hand down to tug up one of his hands. Examining the bruises on his wrist with the same calculating look he gave him after fights. "Wrists sore? Movement okay?"

          OH FUCK. OH FUCK. THIS IS DANGEROUS.  not dangerous, in the sense that his life is in danger, but dangerous in the sense that he's creeping closer and closer to the point of no return. dangerous in the sense that he's rapidly drowning in wyatt already, control falling further and further from his reach. dangerous in the sense that wyatt seems very aware of that fact, and plans to use it to play him like a fiddle.  fuck.

          typically, his eyes can't help but focus on wyatt's dick, in the rare moments it's in his sight. it's there, it's massive, impossible to miss ― he can't be blamed for that, he's only human, only a man that is  ...  very, very attracted to his friend. but the moment there's fingers clenched in his hair, wyatt has his full, undivided attention; in this moment, his world shrinks to just wyatt, the way his eyes watch him with intent, without the mask of indifference he usually sees, the way his fingers drag and push along his skin, the way his voice fills his ears, stark and clear within the shower walls.  he is so fucked.

          his bruised skin gives a faint, dull throb where wyatt presses, breaking the rhythm of his breath, and god, if his pulse gets any louder, he'll go deaf. wyatt hasn't even done anything, not really, and yet here he is blanketed in want that clouds his mind and practically has him dripping on the shower floor  (  and with wyatt blocking the spray of water, he can't even use it as cover  ).  he's never wanted a man so bad in his goddamn broken ass life.

          he isn't given the chance to answer any of wyatt's questions, and he doesn't attempt to. it's all part of the act, all part of the game. wyatt's got him in the palm of his hand, and is clearly enjoying playing with his food. he does, to his credit, manage to stay perfectly still, only his eyes following wyatt's touch where they can, since he can't move his head ― right up until he feels that touch trail down his belly, inching closer to the  exact  place he wants it most. his stomach clenches, and his hips rock forward, not much, but certainly enough to be noticed. and if that wasn't reaction enough, his own mouth rebels against him, spitting out a confession without the explicit consent of his mind:    “    nothing that i mind being broken.    ”

Their hearts race, synced to the rhythm of tension between them. There’s a beat where neither say anything, as if waiting to see what the other will do. A nurse spots the altercation in passing and is gone to seek aid without question or a word. “You’re safe here— this is just a numbing agent. Before I stitch your wound.” Frank’s gaze flickers to the syringe as he tries to softly reassure the other.

His patient eases up, dropping an arm and backing away slow— Langdon observes quietly, studying the way he seems ashamed of his behavior. The breaking of eye contact, the scratching of the back of his neck. The doctor lowers his hands but keeps his distance for the time being. “I’m fine— thanks.” Frank flashes an easy, almost carefree smile. Although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Concern lingers. “That wasn’t even in the top five tussles I’ve had in this ED.”

Security stops in the doorway, their urgency dying mid-step with the newfound distance between the two. “All good here, Doctor Langdon?” An officer asks.

Frank nods, “Hm? Yeah, we were just testing each other’s agility before we race in the parking lot.” The snarky remark earns the doctor an eyeroll, but they’re left alone again. Langdon’s attention turns back to his patient.

          RELAX, DONOMIE. GET A FUCKING GRIP.  he's fine. everything is fine. everything has to be fine, even if there's a dull ring in his ears and his heart feels like it's going to beat its way out of his chest.  breathe.  in, two, three, four  ...  out, two, three, four  ...  in, two, three, four  ...  out, two, three, four.  it may be the only thing he remembers from his mandatory high school counseling sessions after vicent died, but goddamn does it work.  in, two, three, four  ...  out, two, three, four  ...  in, two, three, four  ...  out, two, three, four.

          his excerise is quickly interrupted by a soft, short fit of giggles. fuck, he forgot langdon is funny. sassy, hilarious, with a sarcastic humor that almost perfectly mirrors his own. interrupted, yeah, but it eases some of the tension off his shoulders, melts the stiffness in his muscles.

          is he alright ?  probably not. but he will be. he's had worse. he will have worse. so he nods, and continues to nod as takes steps back until he feels the soft press of the bed against the back of his thighs. he drops down with a soft sigh.    “    it's fine. i'm fine, don't worry. that usually  ...  doesn't happen. i dunno what that was.    ”    usually probably isn't the wording he should have used. hasn't happened recently is more accurate, more truthful.  but langdon doesn't need to know that.  he flips his arm, putting his gashed forearm on full display, compliance, hand open in a sign of mirrored absence of hostility.    “    sorry. go ahead.    ”