think too much, then come too soon
by skazka

think too much, then come too soon

skazka

Summary

Caleb tries to put himself in a favorable position for the inevitable. It doesn't work out.

Notes

Imported from Archive of Our Own. Original work id: 14701527.

Chapter 1

His shirt comes off over his head, but the tug dislodges his glasses, and Caleb should laugh but he can't — it's faintly horrifying instead, like an embarrassing typo in a work email or a sour note, and he's on him too soon, he's covering Caleb with his mouth and Caleb can do nothing but kiss him back, from beneath. His beard is still wet with liquor and the inside of his mouth tastes like cedar. Everything about him is vaguely expensive, from the expanse of muscle on display to the furniture

He shifts himself against the couch, pinning Caleb's wrists with one big arm. In all likelihood the furniture here costs more than Caleb's apartment does. Caleb presses back against him, feeling slutty, feeling bad. The quicker this happens, the sooner it's over and the more time he'll have left over for whatever it is he needs to do.

Nathan's technique is good, for a drunk guy but how the fuck would Caleb know — sucking kisses with hard deliberation, not fast but slow. It's not like Caleb's going anywhere any time soon. His pulse is spiking.

Caleb isn't sober either and the liquor is sitting in the bottom of his stomach like a brick, but he'd paced himself, kept Nathan talking. It hadn't been hard to keep him pouring drink after drink — like he'd wanted it too, maybe, Caleb's paranoia still needles at him in the back of his mind. Now here they are. He wants to be sick.

The inside of his mouth is scraped raw, and he can almost forget what he's driving at here, what he's come for. He needs to remember. The two of them come apart clumsily.

"You know what you want on the instinctual level. I want you to tell me." Nathan isn't slurring his words, not any more. He's toasted, not incoherent. Far less drunk than Caleb had hoped."But don't try and fuck with my head. It won't work."

Caleb rubs his palm over his face, willing himself to wake up. "I don't — it's whatever you want. You can do whatever you want to me."

96 hours ago, he might have meant it. 96 hours ago Nathan Bateman was the bright shiny tech maverick he'd have done anything for and now he's a monster with no conscience and an immaculate home. Nathan claps a hand against his leg and it sends a seismic shock of arousal up to Caleb's groin. His palm massages a broad sloppy circle there.

"Say what you want me to do to you. Out loud, you can do it. I believe in you, man. Say the words."

"I want you to fuck me."

Nathan grins, sharp white teeth in a sea of dark beard. "Yeah, but how? There's no limit to ways two or more people can fuck. I can fuck you in your mind, right now. Tell me."

(Caleb doesn't like the sound of two or more. It's difficult to imagine Nathan has more than two friends.)

"I want you to fuck me so hard I can't walk." That's what guys like Nathan like to hear, right? He doesn't know if it sounds sexy or just lewd.

His smile flashes warmth, sincerity, spontaneity. He's drunk. He's good and drunk. "That's a good start."

Nathan wraps one hand around the back of Caleb's head and slips him from the couch to the hard tile floor. The solidity of Nathan's body against his is stifling — the two of them fall like one, like so much dead weight. Caleb urges him to roll over, only half-verbally, before hefting his body with both hands; Nathan makes an indistinct muffled sound and flops back against the tile, letting himself go dead-man limp just in time to jerk up his hips when Caleb tries to climb on top of him. The muscles of his stomach are shaking under him, shaking with laughter, and the cold floor is murdering Caleb's knees already.

The keycard has clattered out of Nathan's pocket, and he doesn't even notice. Caleb braces both his hands parallel to Nathan's sides. If he can figure out how drunk he is, he can figure out where to go from here — if he needs to pour the rest of the bottle down his throat, he'll do it.

This isn't smart; it's just an angle, and even if it doesn't work it shows he's willing to play ball. Maybe everything's about sex in the end.

"What are you doing?"

"Just looking." Caleb rubs a hand over Nathan's shorn head. "God, you look good. Jesus, I'm sorry. You really look good."

He's falling all over himself, he's — just looking and he's struck by the sight all over again, pulse fluttering with attraction laced with fear. It's not even that telling him that is a lie. His sleepy eyes are so brown they look black and the muscles in his thick arms stand out even in repose. He's beautiful, in some kind of sloppy way, and he's going to make this really fucking difficult.

"At some point, you know, you should take your pants off." He's pressing his fingers against his mouth, looking back at Caleb with an almost contemplative expression, but Caleb must not respond soon enough for his liking because he's jerking down his jeans without unbuttoning them and palming adoringly at his naked hip.

It would be kind of sweet, under other circumstances. Disarmingly sweet, like he's never been with another guy. They're both trying to play each other — play drunk, act willing like there aren't a thousand reasons to have reservations about screwing your maybe-murderous definitely-woman-hating boss. Caleb shuts his eyes and spreads his legs wider.

it would seem sloppy if it weren't so painfully deliberate, Nathan leaving bruise-marks on the side of Caleb's throat while his fingers work him open. But he enters him all at once, and the transient flinch of pain makes Caleb catch his breath. He almost pulls away — spit's not enough for this and he's nowhere near drunk enough to be relaxed, he's nowhere near close—

"That's good. That's good. Right, dude, now keep going."

He's too sloppy-drunk or too stubborn to lift him and Caleb has to hold himself up, riding with uncertain slow motions against his cock — keeping him there with a hand at first before Nathan's erection stays where it should be, while Nathan's own hands grip and pinch at the backs of Caleb's legs. This way he can set the pace, but his knees press sharp against the tile and Nathan's dick seems impossibly big, or just too big for Caleb's body as Caleb is — permitted to fuck himself on him, maybe. Maybe this is how it always is. He could fuck anybody if he wanted to. He's good-looking. He's rich. It doesn't have to be like this; this must be the way he wants it.

Nathan is a fallen colossus, reaching up with his free hand that isn't fumbling at Caleb's ass to jam two fingers in his mouth, then three — sharp-clumsy, gagging him and jostling against his teeth. Caleb tries to suck his fingertips, self-conscious of its wet obscenity, but Nathan's arm isn't so steady and he withdraws only to stick his thumb in between Caleb's teeth — a vulgar substitution that sends an electric jolt straight to Caleb's dick.

Maybe he should have blown him. It would have been so much easier if he just sucked Nathan's dick and got it over with. All the blood in his body is surging directly to his crotch, he can feel himself getting hard, and it doesn't hurt any less.

"Now try not thinking about her. Try it."

"What?"

"You can't not, can you?" His spitty hand finds the back of Caleb's head, makes a fist — Caleb's jaw goes slack and Drunk Nathan must take it as a sign to start pulling his weight. "Think about little Ava. She has little hands, doesn't she? Tiny little hands."

"I wasn't—"

His slimy hand recedes, rubbing a wet circle on Caleb's chest. Pushing him down, splitting him open — it hurts with every push, like the angle's bad or the placement is wrong, Caleb rocks his hips against him to try and fix whatever's wrong and it only seems to encourage him. His dick is leaking white against Nathan's belly, against the faint track of hair there.

Nathan works his hips with pornographic finesse. Caleb takes his cock as far as he can. Pictures from porn are flashing through the theater of his mind's eye, not good porn. He tries to be encouraging. Caleb tries to make the right sounds, to angle his body the right way — like a girl; he takes pains to let Nathan run his hands over his chest if that's what he wants, to grab where there's nothing to grab, mechanical.

He's splitting in two, he's going to lose it like this, and every punishing stroke is a convulsion. Nathan is going to kill him. Nathan is going to kill Ava.

He brings his hips down, accompanied with a sharp split of pain. A thin sound escapes Caleb's mouth, the peeled-off edge of a cry.

"Did you want to fuck me before you came here? I knew you'd want to fuck me." Nathan grabs his dick the way you'd grab a doorknob, with all the coordination you'd expect out of a very very drunk person. Caleb is panting now, slipping and grinding on his cock. "Like you're gagging for it. It's an experience."

Caleb doesn't say anything; he sobs. He never should've come here. He never should've come to this place.

Nathan pulls out and rolls him over flat — the only reason he finishes on Caleb's stomach is that he's not near enough to finish on his face. His fingers fill the slippery void of Caleb's asshole, teasing at the broken places, forcing in.

"You wanted me inside of you, right?" With a drunk guy's lack of volume modulation, right behind his ear. Caleb lashes out with his balled fist, striking Nathan in the ribs. Nathan punches him in the throat, and leaves him gasping.

Caleb waits for the next blow, sprawled out like that, but what comes is worse. Nathan introduces the beer bottle into him, punishingly slowly — he can feel the embossed label catch a raw edge, and his noises are noises of disbelief. His ass doesn't react too well to the hard stretch of being pulled apart around a broad cold object — Caleb can feel himself spasming, as Nathan twitches at it with his fingers, pressing on the perineum where the hard shape can be felt through the skin. He cups Caleb's balls, tugs them as he fucks into him with the beer bottle, centimeter by centimeter.

"You're gonna fucking kill me," Caleb slurs through his shattered throat, and Nathan laughs.

Caleb comes like that, he comes hard and painful with Nathan slipping him loose at the last possible moment, sticking his fingers in the awful raw place where the glass bottle used to be like a sleight-of-hand trick. Caleb can't see if he's bleeding or not; when he twists his head Nathan presses a slimy hand to the back of his neck and forces him down. The weight of his body aligns down Caleb's back, pressing him crooked. Caleb's breath still comes in strained jerks, past the tight band of pain that has contracted around his throat; he can feel himself about to vomit, he can feel blood and wetness between his legs. Nathan's fingers make soft circles in him, and Caleb's vision strobes out of the world.