Title: Inflection
Author: pre_raphaelite1
Characters: ?/Anthony Goldstein
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dirty talk
Themes/kinks chosen: Everything Old is New Again: Rape or Ravishing
Word Count: 2150
Summary: ”I'm getting closer. Sure you don't want to run again, little mouse? I like chasing you. It makes you so fucking hot and tight. You want to be like that for me, don't you? Tight like a little virgin slut.”
Author's notes: Undying love and gratitude to emiine for the fabulous on-demand beta which made this come together better than I'd hoped. And snogs and lurve to dannyyy who let me whine at her and who reassured me that the fic worked outside my head too.

“Inflection”

“Where are you, little mouse? You know you can't hide forever.”

Anthony trembles, curled up against the back side of the cabinet, pressed between it and the smooth red of the walls. He shouldn't have hidden here. Should have found somewhere else to hide, somewhere tighter, larger, darker, brighter. Anywhere else, he's certain, would be better than here. But he had run, heart racing while his breathing grew shallow, too loud, too fucking loud, Anthony. And he hadn't thought of anything but getting away, away, run little mouse, run. So he ran. He had slid around a corner, toppled over his own feet then nearly broken a lamp off a table in his frantic dash for safety, running faster, faster, gotta get away, run, Anthony, faster, he's going to catch you.

But his pursuer hadn't run. He merely strolled, patient, quiet, out of one room and into the next. His footsteps were steady, deliberate, just loud enough to be heard about the pounding of Anthony's pulse. Shit, he's going to be caught. He knows it. He had to know where Anthony was. Probably could see the sleeve of his shirt or a strand of his hair or hear the sound of his breathing which needed to be quieter, quieter, slower.

“I smell you, little mouse. You're all quivering and hot and afraid, aren't you? You can admit it. I can smell it all over you.”

Anthony bites his lower lip as his hands curl up under his jumper. Maybe he can dash to the door. Maybe if he runs fast enough, he can get there, it's just over there, just across the room. Maybe if he looks the other way, he'll have enough time to run again.

“I'm getting closer. Sure you don't want to run again, little mouse? I like chasing you. It makes you so fucking hot and tight. You want to be like that for me, don't you? Tight like a little virgin slut. Just like when I met you, that first time. So fucking tight around me, I thought I would die from how good it felt. And you wanted it so much.”

He curls into himself a bit more, head shaking very faintly. His voice is getting closer, but Anthony doesn't dare check to see where he is. He just tries to make himself as small as possible, smaller, closer to the wall, you're not worth it, too small, too quiet, you'll escape.

“You want it again now, don't you? You want me to push you into the wall and shove my cock all the way through you. You want to scream for me, cry for me. You'll beg me for it, won't you? Beg for my cock and my fucking spunk. Fill my arse with it, you'll say. Make me drip with it, you'll say. And I will.”

Anthony closes his eyes tightly- can't see him so he can't see you, maybe you'll wake up, wake up, maybe it's -

But there's a hand on his arm, gripping and holding and his eyes fly open as he screams, twisting and pulling against the cabinet out of sheer instinct, fear bursting hot and painful through him as he's dragged to his feet and pressed against the wall. Solid heat against him, holding him firmly to the unmoving wall. Anthony tries to free himself, but there's no room to move, no room to run, no way to free himself from the grip of hands or the unyielding weight, too close, too heavy, too strong.

“Shhh. Don't fight me. You'll hurt yourself. We don't want that. Shhh. That's it. Breathe for me. I want you to have breath enough to scream when you're writhing on the end of my cock.”

His breath is hot against Anthony's ear, steady, so steady and hot and in and out and over the sensitive curve of ear and neck, setting his hair fluttering lightly. And the closeness of it and the inevitability of it makes Anthony's shoulders gradually drop, makes his head tip to the side, to the lips that whisper over skin of his throat.

“Just like that. That's my boy. You don't want to run anymore do you? You want to stay right here with me, don't you?”

Anthony nods his head faintly, helplessly.

“That's a good boy. Now tell me that you want me to fuck you.”

His cheeks burn, hot points below his eyes that tint the lower periphery of his vision pink.

“Tell me you want me to fuck that tight little arse of yours.”

He closes his eyes once more and he nods again then speaks in the barest murmur, “I want you... I want you to fuck me.”

“You're a eager slut aren't you? Can't wait to get it in you? Tell me whose dirty slut you are.”

Hips grind forward against his, the hard ridge of an erection unmistakable against him.

“Yours.”

“My what?”

“Your dirty fucking slut.”

Then he can feel his scent being breathed in, like some great predator tasting him in the air, drawing him in to judge, to savor. His hands close tightly in the thin shirt covering the man before him, fisting in the fabric and going still.

“Turn around and drop your trousers and pants, mouse, and you can get some cock just like you want.”

But he keens, shaking his head, not yet, just a bit more, a bit more time before then, can't happen yet.

“No? You are refusing me?”

“No!” His eyes go wide, he knows better than that, he wouldn't ever do that, never refuse him, never. And he sees those lips frown and it's enough to make his heart jump again but then they curve into a wicked smirk.

“Oh, I see. Greedy boy.”

Lips lock on his, pressing and demanding and shifting in a constant reminder that he is in control, that Anthony is here and his and oh fuck his tongue is in his mouth, shoving deep enough to make Anthony's eyes roll back, plunging against and again, fucking his mouth in hungry pulses, until Anthony's writhing, too much, too much, can't breathe, can't- can't anything but take it, let him fuck, shove it farther, push it deeper, until he's light-headed and doesn't even care anymore. He doesn't even react when the kiss ends until teeth bite his lip sharply and he gasps in a deep breath.

“Now, I'm not repeating myself again. Turn around. And get your kit off. Or I will be very, very cross. You don't want me to be cross, now, do you?”

Anthony shakes his head quickly, turning immediately in his arms, hands fumbling at his own flies, skittering over his button in his urgency until he finally gets it open and his zip down. He hesitates one moment, no more, then pushes the fabric of his trousers and pants down and that's all the encouragement they need to slip over the small curve of his arse and slither down his thin legs. A moment later there's hot, velvety hardness against him, rubbing firmly against his arse, then between it, up and down his cleft.

“Tell me how you want it, Anthony. Tell me how you want to get fucked.”

He knows the answer to this, he knows it deep in his belly. “Hard. Fuck me hard. No fingers. Just your cock. Want it hard.”

The moan from behind him curls his toes against the floor, makes him rise up against the wall.

“God, you perfect fucking whore.”

A moment later he feels his arse warm with liquid heat as he's slicked in preparation, just enough to ease his movements, not enough to make him sloppy-- not, wet like a fucking girl, Anthony, feel it, you're dripping and wet and just like a fucking girl-- but enough for now, enough for this, for the cock pushing against him already, nudging relentlessly against the tiny pucker of his arsehole. It's about to happen, he's about to get fucked, it's about to shove into him, through him- oh god, he can feel it pushing in, too big, oh god too big and too hard, too slow, too- then he thrusts his arse back in one sharp motion, then it's all in him, all the length and hardness, deep in him and he's screaming with it, arse stretching, burning with it.

He's held, hands on his hip and shoulder, arm tight across his chest, holding Anthony tight onto his cock as he twists and whimpers and keens.

“No, no, no, Anthony. Stay here. Not going anywhere. Staying right here on my fucking cock, aren't you? Hush, that's it. Just hold still a moment then you'll get fucked just like you want. That's my little slut.”

His shoulders slump as his body eases then slips that last impossible inch down his cock, until Anthony's arse is flush against his stomach, until he can feel the softness of balls below his hole, against the back of his own sac. A groan breathes over his ear, over his neck, against his back, and he answers it with a whimper, head dropping forward to thump against the wall in surrender.

“Fuck, that's it. No choice but to get fucked. And I know know you want it. You know you want it. Right? No, no- let's hear your voice, Anthony. Beg me to move. Beg me to fuck you until you scream.”

He whines again, nodding faintly, licking his lips as he prepares to answer him, tries to answer, fails, and tries again. This time his voice skips but he hopes what words he can form is enough. “F-fuck me... please... p-please. Fuck me.”

By volume of the strangled moan behind him, it's enough. Oh thank god it's enough and then it's more, pushing, thrusting more. The drag backwards, friction over the stretched out ring of quivering muscle then the sharp jab into him, hips slapping against his small arse cheeks, jolting, slamming, again and again, unrelenting, and he's crying out with the feel of it. It's not pure pleasure; it aches and burns and it's so hard but Anthony just pushes back to it, offering up his hole, his hole, to him to be used and fucked. And he can hear it too: slapping, slurping, squelching, and it's obscene, this is obscene, he is obscene- he's nothing more than a slut, a whore for him, doing anything, taking anything, his. Anthony's breath is short with gasping cries that are desperate pleas for it all to stop, no more, too much, can't take any more, please.

Then there's a hand on his cock and it's tight and tugging in time with the rough thrusts. Now and now, over and- oh god- smearing his own fluid down the shaft of his cock, stroking, faster and harder and his head is pounding almost as fast as the cock is being mercilessly shoved in and out of him. Anthony's hands try to find a hold on the wall, nails scraping down the painted plaster, skipping unevenly as he begins to scream, sharp and high and wordless.

“Come. Come. Fucking come, you tight cocksucking whore.”

The demand is accompanied by a sharp twist of his hand around the head of his cock and Anthony does, muscles spasming, back bowing, arse clenching as he is thrust screaming into orgasm, pleasure ripping through him with piercing ferocity, grating over his skin and spiking through nerves with such intensity that it hurts, it hurts, so much, out of control, wave after wave of ferocious sensation. It doesn't stop- he doesn't stop, more and more and he thinks he might die from the throbbing pulse which has taken over him, a frantic beat shrinking his skin around his body so he feels every breath, every bead of sweat dripping down his back, every curl of hair pushing against the back of his thighs, until finally his ear is filled with a shout of triumph as he comes with a final slam of his cock. Anthony is jarred against the wall, but he doesn't care, can't care, too much effort to care and he has no effort, no strength left. It's over. Oh shit, it's over.



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