#flitfic

A guy? Taking a shower in your bathroom? What the hell? Those words are on your lips as you purposefully stride forward and yank the shower door open to—

—oh fuck, you didn’t think this far ahead in Operation Confront Possible Home Intruder.

He’s standing there buck naked under the showerhead and hot water runs down through his hair, down his face, down his body and not gonna lie it’s somewhat difficult to pull your eyes away from that lean athletic frame mottled and marked with bruises from who-knows-what back up to his face… but you’re not sure if that was a good idea because you only notice the see his bright blue eyes flash with alarm before they darken and before you know it he’s got a hold on your arm and he’s pulling you inside with him.

You let out a scream because what the fuck—or at least you try to before he presses you against the wall with his lips against yours, and when an unexpected moan slips out of your mouth he takes it as an opportunity to deepen the kiss with his tongue. It’s not long before the water soaks your athletic bra and your spandex shorts straight through but you’re not exactly thinking about that when he moves to the crook of your neck with a growl and you feel his lips, his teeth, pressing down for a moment before he bites and good god that’s going to leave a hickey.

“W-Who the fuck are you?” you gasp out, but the only thing you get in reply is him pressing his body flush to your own—enough for you to feel his erection right by your belly button, fuck he’s so tall—and he doesn’t even pull back before scooping you up into his arms to heft you up higher and press you harder against the wall. He licks a stripe back up to your jawline, nipping you hard, sucking and licking at the corner of your jaw and it’s distracting enough that you almost don’t notice him shoving your sports bra up past your breasts.

Without missing a beat he slides his arm back underneath your ass right as you feel yourself slipping down the tile and grunts as he slides you back up so he can mouth at the sensitive skin between your breasts. Instead of ducking his head down to nip and suck lower, he pushes you up higher against the wall with a flex of his arms. Once he reaches your navel you strain a little to hook one leg over his shoulder to keep yourself from slipping back down again, and that’s when you realise—fuck, my spandex is still on and do I—really want this—?

Your back slides down the tile a little more again as he runs his hand down the underside of your thigh, and even more when he hefts that other leg over his other shoulder. Without his shoulders to brace yourself up you slip your arms behind his neck, and that’s when you notice the barbed wire ink—do not touch.

He growls and squeezes your ass roughly before pushing you back up the wall, moving even closer to the tile until you’re almost sitting on his shoulders and you can feel the outside air from the small window close to the ceiling cooling your back. From this high you can see the steam rising from the hot water cascading from the showerhead and the steam coiling off this stranger’s lithe body. Even though you’re by the window there’s nothing you can hear aside from running water and his harsh pants drowning your own breaths out.

Listening to his huffs makes you realise just how close he is to your crotch—you can feel his breath ghosting against your sex even through a layer of spandex and the sound of it, the feel of it—is enough to make you clench in anticipation despite yourself. What’s he going to do next…?

You don’t have to wait long to find out—he dips his head forward and slowly drags the tip of his tongue against the crease of your still-clothed pussy, the pressure light and faint but enough to make you shudder and gasp because when was the last time someone decided to go down on you? You can feel more than see him grinning as he licks another stripe, this time pressing his tongue even harder but agonisingly slower, before he pulls back and the next thing you feel are his fingernails scratching down your hips as he digs his fingers into the waistband of your spandex and jerks them down, the water making them both stick and slide down past your ass and just barely past your cunt, the fact that you decided to go commando today making itself apparent.

This next part happens so fast you barely remember how he got them off, but he somehow manages to hike both your legs up over his head, just enough to shimmy your shorts down to your ankles before letting your thighs drop back down onto his broad shoulders with a wet slap of skin. He doesn’t even give you a moment to catch your breath before his tongue meets your wet pussy without preamble and—f-fucking shit, you’re almost ashamed of the sounds he’s drawing out of you; wanton, sex-starved moans and gasps, echoing off the bathroom tile and loud enough that even the water rushing down the drain can’t mask it.

He doesn’t quit even after your huffs start coming out as breathy whines and you swear your vision’s starting to white out because of all the steam and heat and that feel of his fucking tongue in your pussy, his lips on your clit, even his nails raking down your waist is enough to drive you over the edge as you cry out in orgasm. And he doesn’t stop there.

You’re dimly aware of the sound of wet fabric hitting the floor—that must be your spandex, you think—and your back sliding down the tile until you realise you’re astride his thigh… you don’t have to look down to see that he hasn’t spent yet or even made any attempt to touch himself because you can feel the length of his shaft between the two of you. When you blink the world back into existence after catching your breath, the first thing your eyes focus on is that barbed wire around his neck, black ink against pale skin and even paler scars, but your eyes are forced away from the full sleeves of tattoos he sports on both arms when he grabs your chin and jerks your gaze up to meet his.

“C’mon; that’s not all you really have in you, is it?” he says, his voice low and taunting and he licks his lips for good measure while tucking a lock of wet hair behind your ear. He then trails those two fingers down your jawline, down the side of your neck, down between the valley of your breasts and down to your navel. He thumbs over your still-sensitive clit and that’s the only warning you get before he grabs a handful of your ass and ruts against the juncture of your thighs.

You try not to yelp—for god’s sake he hasn’t even entered you—yet?—but settle for stifling it by biting down on your lip. He rolls his hips against yours, pressing himself flush against your nearly naked and soaking wet body, and you can’t help but whimper out a tiny fuck me when he pulls back again.

“Hm?” When he doesn’t grind against you again you open one eye to see him looking at you with an eyebrow cocked and that’s when you realise oh god, he heard you.

When you try to arch into him he pushes you back forcefully into the wall, hard enough that your teeth knock together but he’s pressing into you again, his fucking boner’s pressing against your sex and he hisses into your ear, “What did you say?”

“F-Fuck me,” you choke out—you feel like a goddamn slut, the way those words escape between your gritted teeth so easily, but the promise behind that single heh he breathes out in response to your command sends shivers down to the twist of arousal roiling in the pit of your stomach.

He grunts as he shoves you up the wall again, hoisting up your thighs until you take the hint to wrap them around his waist and this time you do cry out because when he enters you, he’s not gentle in the slightest. He doesn’t even give you time to adjust to the size and feel of his cock before he pulls back and thrusts into you again, and again, and again; the way he fucks you is nothing like how you’ve been fucked before, because even if you’ve had rough sex—maybe a bit of bondage, maybe some power play—all of that is absolutely nothing compared to raw fucking. The only thing that makes you think he’s taking your comfort into consideration is his fingers wrapped into your wet tangles of hair, the palm of his left hand being the only thing to keep your head from slamming into the wall with every movement of his hips. But even then his grip’s almost painfully tight, his nails digging into your scalp, and once he’s built up a fast rhythm he tugs down hard on your roots til you’re forced to look up at the ceiling and oh.

He huffs into your exposed neck with each thrust; his breath on your skin and in your ear—the sensation and sound of it drowns out almost everything else around you. Your head is swimming with the vague notion that nothing else exists, nothing else is solid except for this fucker in front of you and the tiled wall you’re being pounded into that when you come with a low moan you don’t even fucking realise that everything’s blurred because you’re suddenly pressed up against the shower door and he’s about to take you from the back until he’s got a thumb in your pussy and two fingers in your—fuck—

(You’ve done it in the back before, once. After two weeks of cajoling and half an hour of prepping and lots and lots of lube, you were able to say that while it wasn’t your favourite position, it was something different. But if you knew that one day you’d be getting nailed in the ass by a hot stranger in your shower, would you have tried to get used to anal with your own toys?)

You’re almost too smouldered out after two consecutive orgasms but your skin still feels electrified and all your nerves are hotwired to the sudden heat he’s coaxing and stroking and scissoring within you. You can’t help but moan while he works your nether regions, but when he adds in a third finger to the two already stretching your limits it’s too fucking much—

Your chest is heaving with anticipation and the pain makes you cry out but you force yourself to swallow, force yourself to calm down because this... doesn’t have to hurt nearly as much as it’s going to, right? You force yourself to focus on the feel of his thumb in your cunt instead, which, even though it’s nearly nothing compared to his cock, manages to brush back against your g-spot.

But before you can arch into that roughness he pulls all his digits out and the only thing you recall before you feel the tip of his dick pressing into your entrance is the smell of warm vanilla sugar which you dimly recall is the scent of your fucking shower gel aka something that should not be used for lube at all, but it seems to do the trick—or at least does it well enough that you don’t feel like your asshole’s being torn asunder. Though that might have less to do with him utilising whatever’s on hand as lube and more with the fact that his other hand—the one that’s not gripping your hip for leverage—is back at your crotch. The way he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit while fingerfucking your oversensitive pussy makes you raggedly gasp against the shower door, your breath fogging up the glass every single time you pant and moan.

Panting and moaning is all you really can do, at this point—if it weren’t for the fact that you’re still getting fucked six ways to a sore ass Sunday, you’d be nothing but used up, sated, and completely and utterly spent. But even if your body feels like it’s been pushed to its sexual limits you can still feel that familiar buzz precluding a climax building up down in the spot where his fingers pump and piston and curl inside you.

The last two times you didn’t get to ride out your orgasm as much as you wanted to, so this time you decide to try to keep yourself from going over the edge right away. You fumble for his wrist to still his hand right as you feel yourself starting to come, but—

“Tch. You think you can—pick when you get to come?” His voice is guttural and hoarse with a hint of irritation as he schlicks his fingers out of your cunt, but as you try to catch your breath you hear him continue, “…you can do it yourself then.” And before you can process the meaning of his words he’s got a grip on your wrist and he’s pressing your own fingers against your clit, forcing your fingers to work yourself with his own. Even though you try to stave off the intensifying waves he forces you to coax out of yourself for as long as you can, you can’t help but shudder and arch and come into your own hand, your fingers and his slick from the effort.

A moment later you feel his abs tense up behind your back, his grip tighten on your wrist and hip, and a sharp inhale’s the only warning you get before he finally spends himself in your ass, balls deep and with a breathy exhale. He sags against you then but your combined weight is enough to click the shower door open—both of you almost tumble in a heap onto the bath mat then, but he catches you before you fall.

Boneless and breathless and in a daze, you let him heave you back into the shower, and you’re too exhausted to do anything else when he lets you slip onto the shower floor. The hot water from the showerhead pelts your prone form, but you barely feel it—mere minutes ago it felt like every inch of your skin burned with pleasure and want; now everything from your scalp to your toes feels oversensitised to the point of numb bliss.

He doesn’t turn back to look at you once while he dresses himself. Your last glimpse of him before you let your eyelids flutter shut is him looking over his shoulder before he shuts the bathroom door behind him, and his electric blue eyes are what follow you into a dreamless sleep.

(Your roommate is the one who wakes you up by pounding on the bathroom door. You sit up and rub your eyes blearily, disoriented and sore. The shower water’s still on, but the hot water’s long been running tepid. Did you fall asleep in the…?

 It’s only after you towel off and look into the mirror that the events that transpired a few hours ago hit you; you gingerly touch the lines of bruises and welts and nail marks and you can’t quite suppress a shiver of what must be perverse delight when you dazedly recollect what—and who—marked you up all red and purple like this. You didn’t even catch his name.

But… y’know. Afterwards, every time you touch yourself, you can’t help but think about the mysterious stranger who fucked you so hard and so raw and so good in the shower; you slip your hand into your panties, close your eyes, and picture his intense gaze and hard angular features and beautiful bruises and flexing muscles glistening wet under the spray.

Sometimes you wonder if he’ll come back again.

One’s voice is starting to sound concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Jusst lissten.”

“Alright.”

Spook hears the sound of a door closing on the other end of the line and the sound of bed springs squeaking. He can picture One sitting on the ratty twin mattress of his single person dorm, silhouetted by the same late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows of the abandoned apartment Spook’s been staying in. Except One’s probably clutching car keys in his free hand, while he’s digging crescents into his palm from how tightly his hand’s balled into a fist.

“Do you need me to come get you?”

Yeah. “No.”

“Spook.” A sigh. “Step away from the window.”

“I’m not—”

“I can hear the wind blowing over the receiver, you know.”

Spook finds himself instinctively taking a step back from the window he had propped open earlier and was leaning out of before One caught him in the act. He sighs and starts pacing.

“Twenty-ssevven sstories iss a long wayss up.”

“It’s also a long ways down. Spook, I thought you were going to keep going.”

“What do you think I’vve been doing.”

One’s voice is impatient. “I thought you said you were going to try—”

“Goddamnit, I’ve been ffucking trying.”

Spook’s voice cracks on that last word. Trying. Such a loaded word, nowadays. Trying to—what, keep a level head? Calm down? Live, breathe, survive, like he has been trying to do for the past—

He shakes his head, paces the room a little faster, grips the phone a little harder. Trying.

“Not hard enough,” One’s firm voice filters through the earpiece.  If it was anyone else, Spook would’ve chucked his phone out the window right then and there and then jumped after it so when the local papers headlined “19-year-old Leaps Off 27th Floor” they would fucking know just how ineffectual those three words are to someone who’s been trying too hard for too long. But because it’s One, Spook just rubs at his forehead and pulls his gaze away from the open window.

 “You know, I sshouldn’t havve evven called you,” Spook says. “Should’vve just ffucking let you ffind out on the evvening newss.”

There’s an intake of breath that sounds like One’s readying to argue back, but instead the line goes quiet for a while. “Then why did you?”

“…becausse I wanted to ssay bye.” He listens to silence on the other end of the line for a beat before pressing [end call]. He’s got maybe ten or twenty seconds before One’ll call the circus of paramedics and cops and fire trucks to the building he’s been holed up in for the past week or two, so he had better do this quick.

He moves to the other side of the room that has the windows with the curtains pulled back. Ugly burgundy moth-eaten drapes, a neatly tied noose dangling from the wall mount, and a wobbly-legged kitchen stool underneath it. His height atop the stool’s too tall when standing, so he sits on it as he loops the noose over his head. The late afternoon sun’s coming in between the parted curtains and when he shields his vision from the twilight, Spook finds that his hands are shaking. 

This is it.

The hand that’s gripping the stool causes it to tremble underneath him. It takes a moment for him to realise that, even though he knows he is going to stand up and tip forward and let that rope snap his neck, he still has a death grip on the seat and his ankles are curled tight around the foot bar. 

No. I have to do this. It’s been three years of pointless endeavours. I fucking tried.

He closes his eye and tries to imagine the sound of sirens in the distance to drum up a sense of urgency, tries to build it into confidence to mould around his conviction that he is going to finally kill himself right here, right now, in this shitty apartment, in this shitty complex that’s due for demolition just like he is. So he stands up, eyelids shut against the last rays of the setting sun, and tilts forward…

—thud thud thud—

“WAIT!”

What the…? Spook’s eye snaps open just as gravity tugs him down—just in time to meet electric blue eyes and a shock of spiked hair as he finds himself falling into the arms of a fucking stranger—

He squeezes his eye shut once more with a choked gasp when the noose pulls back and tightens around his neck; he struggles and strains and reflexively reaches for the rope, but his fingers scrabble uselessly over the braided hemp.

“Oh shi—crap, I got this—”

There’s a pulse of bright light behind his eyelids and a flash of heat beneath his fingers and suddenly the pressure choking his life out of him is gone. His fingertips are only pressing against skin rubbed raw from rope burn, and now he’s kneeling on the wood floor coughing and spluttering and wondering just what the fuck happened?

“Phew, that was a close one.”

Spook looks up to see the stranger at the kitchen sink, filling a glass with tap water. How did he…? How is he…? The water and utilities for this building were turned off months ago… and where did he get a glass? “You know,” the stranger continues, “if I was just a few more seconds late, you would’ve been a goner. I mean—technically I was already Late and you were Due by that point which makes things even worse, so I’m pretty sure I’m going to get reprimanded for miraculously saving you because uh, I’ve been using too many miracles as of late… oh balls, Ogleby’s going to have my nuts for this…”

While the stranger rambles on, Spook ignores the strange words and scrutinises him as he tries to suck in air without gasping for it. It might be the lighting in the room or lack thereof, but his figure looks sort of fuzzy around the edges. Kind of like how things look when you step out of a theatre into bright sunlight and your eyes take a while to adjust to the light, but right before your pupils manage to contract enough—that’s what staring at this stranger feels like. Nonetheless, Spook notes jet black spiked hair, a plain white t-shirt with dark grey skinnies and high tops. He looks fairly young… maybe around his age. Huh. Who the fuck is this guy?

He ducks his head down and doubles over when another round of harsh coughing seizes his throat, as if his body’s trying to make sure that he really isn’t dead this time. “Who are you?” he manages to spit out in between coughs. “Who the hell are you and what the ffuck were you trying to pull here?”

He hears the clink of a glass being set down next to him on the wooden floor along with the sound of sneakers squeaking past and when he looks up, he almost chokes again.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.