(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

Anonymous asked
Ironflint Alex being absolutely fucked up over a weekend, used hard and put away wet over and over again without any real concern for whether or not he comes or enjoys it.
this probably takes place after alex has been hired as washington’s EA, but before they’re fucking.

alex has a system. he tries to get the numbers of all the people that he thinks he would have sex with again (anonymous sex types, obviously, are not included) and then he ranks them on a scale based on how likely they are to confess their True Feelings for him. He saves the phone space and starts at 6. He’s got a few 10s which don’t even look at him after they’ve come on him, which is ideal.

so he’s raw and itching and hot all over and frustrated because washington won’t get the fucking hint, won’t throw him over that polished wood desk and take him without lube, won’t pull one of those broad hands back at hit him- anywhere, god damnit. alex’s extended touches don’t work and his eyes, dark and needy, don’t work, and his innuedo suggestions don’t work. and washington worked him to the fucking bone, wasn’t kidding when he said 80 hour workweek with mandatory overtime. he’s about ready to not pick up the phone, only his dumb ass knows he’ll always pick up the phone. and this phone cal might be the one where he gets washington to fuck him. they’re going to hong kong in a couple weeks…

so he’s in a 10 kind of mood, wants to be beat and fucked and held down and hit and pummeled fucking THOROUGHLY. his mind is buzzing, too loud, too much, like his soul is gonna burst out of his fucking body. he’s gotta beat it back into him. so he calls up one of his 10s - Chris, who’s huge and broad and heartless - and asks what he’s doing this weekend.

I have a few friends coming over that might like to meet you, chris texts, and alex’s heart almost spills out of his mouth. he reaches through his slacks and squeezes his half-hard cock, thinking about five chrisses, all around him. every part of him aches.

what time’s good? do i get an early bird special?

8pm. don’t wear one of your fancy fucking suits, slut.

he practically comes into his hand as he reads it, and he reaches into his bedside table and gives himself a nice thorough fucking with one of his toys, and comes all over himself. despite the itch he resist the urge to jack off all saturday and shows up at 7:30p, just drunk enough that the world is a little soft around the edges. chris looks at him in his old jeans and his ragged t-shirt and he feels so low, like dirt. chris smacks him and his body trills like a fucking bird.

chris pushes him down and fucks into him without preparing and the pain is so sweet and hot and overbearing that he thinks he might pass out and there’s still light outside. but then that cock is inside of him and he’s gonna be fine, more than fine, alive and put back into his body and freed of his thoughts that dig into him all over like thornbushes. he needs a wildfire and he’s about to get one and he’s hard just thinking about it. chris’s friends - all huge and broad and merciless as he is - ravage him. hit him around, punch him, pull his hair, squeeze bruises into his skin. fuck him, one more merciless than the next, unrelenting until he barely remembers he has a body or a name. fuck his throat like it doesn’t belong to a real human, until he’s ragged and sore and aching and choking with no voice left. hold him as they want, twist him like a tree branch, bend him until maybe it would be better if he broke. maybe he comes, he isn’t sure. he thinks he has but he hasn’t noticed becuase he’s distracted by everything else, the ragged domination of his flesh, his sweet and horrible punishment.

at some point they leave but it takes him a while to notice that he’s laying on the floor, come-slick and sweaty and bruised, alone. his mind is blissfully, magnificently empty; he doesn’t have a single fucking thought in his head, maybe hasn’t for hours, and that’s what he needs, what settles him, what grounds him. he thinks too much and if he doesn’t beat his brain and his flesh down, his thoughts just tear him apart and leave nothing. he needs to be something so he can get washington to fuck him. he groans, pathetic, opens his eyes and everything is blurry. he’s laying on the flood and looking at chris’ flaking ceiling and his whole body is one sweet, sharp terrible ache, hot. he’s been fucked raw and it’s marvelous. he groans out a pathetic noise, tries to sit up but pain flairs through his backside. on his back then, which also sears. he sits himself up on his elbows at least, to notice he’s covered in come and lube and sweat and bruises, and what’s better than than that? He drags a sore hand to his mouth, sucks a bit of the come off. his cock gives a weak twitch, but it aches, too. he tenses the muscles in his legs and scans the area around him, and drags himself over the arm of the nearby couch, barely standing. everything is blurred and dizzy with his brain fogged and slow.

“shower’s yours,” says a voice. chris.

he’s just been fucked within an inch of his life. right. alex groans in acknowledgement. he can barely stand but he staggers across the apartment, and then chris raps him hard on the ass and alex sprawls face-first, unable to recover. his head knocks against the hardwood, bones rattling. he’s dazed and panting with the effort. maybe he’ll lay here for a while and think about nothing.

“if you’re still here in the morning we get another round,” chris says. alex nods on the floor. he won’t be here in the morning. or maybe he will. for now everything hurts too much and his brain is quiet except for pain and his phone isn’t ringing. he closes his eyes and the world lets him shut it off.