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You’re both drunk. Not so drunk that you’re passing out, and lucky that your tolerances allow you to retain some of your motorics. He’d followed you home from the bar like he was a lost puppy, and you weren’t well enough in your senses to deny him. How could you? He’d been grossly charming tonight, all sleazy compliments and smiles, you’ve become quite easy. You hadn’t torn yourself away when his arm crept around you and he offered you a drink, laughing, liquor strong on his breath and his broad body warm against yours, his fingers brushing against the small of your back.
His lips, slightly chapped from the cold wettened by your saliva, trailing down your neck. Slobbish, hopelessly horny, whiskey scented lips, tongue trailing down the middle of your chest, cigarette smoke weighing heavy in the air of your apartment. He’s taken his trousers off, leaving his underwear, and you’re stripped from the top up, his tongue wet against your nipples, sucking greedily. It isn’t the first time you’ve been in this position, his body on yours, his partner leaving him at the bar once he was tired of babysitting, him left to his own devices. Liquor, lust, whatever. Wax lyrical about his past lover, how she fucked him over, how you can’t trust a doll from Revachol, sadness in his eyes and the sort of mourning that can only come from heartbreak. His clumsy hand in your pants, yours in his. It wasn’t new.
The intimacy of being alone in your apartment, without feeling as if you could be walked in on at any second, was new. The rest of your clothes were coming off, that was new.
Him being shy to take off his was new. You decide not to probe, you suppose it isn’t easy for him. You understand enough to know it was likely an insecurity before he had let himself go, developed a swollen face and a bloated stomach, a body tattered by a life marred by bad decisions. You’d handled him in the under the illumination of bleak lights, he’d rutted into your hand, you’d rubbed him off and he’d come while shuddering against you. After, he’d been a little dismissive, a little avoidant. It seemed inescapable that his mood could shift quickly, and he’d fall into fight or flight, trying to close the distance between you as quickly as he could in a crowded bar.
“I’m out for the night, baby,” he said, not making eye contact with you. He’s ashamed of himself, you know that much. Ashamed for many reasons, and not as eager for intimacy as he pretends. Even if he’d been moaning into your mouth moments before, your tongue pushed into his mouth, he couldn’t pull it together. For someone who had seen so much, he was always a little afraid. Afraid of getting close, and afraid of being abandoned for what he is. It was casual enough between you that you knew not to push the envelope.
Letting him follow you home was pushing the envelope. Him on top of you on your mattress was pushing the envelope. His mouth trailing down, messily kissing down your stomach, leaving hickeys and marks across the flesh and burying his nose in your pubes is less casual when you’re in your bed. That sudden intimacy, his bloated, yet sweet face trailing down your body, his greasy hair in your hand.. All those nights of him ranting, raving about his job, about the woman who fucked him over, getting too drunk, but somehow always being just kind enough to you despite his outbursts that you couldn’t help but develop a fondness, leading to you wanting to try something new.
May as well be out with it, you think. He’s in no rush to go further, his face buried in your pubes, you grip his hair harder - something you know he likes, likes more than he’d let on, just like a hand wrapped around his throat, just like his hand wrapped around your throat pushing you against the wall of the bathroom stall, overpowering you and reminding you how easily he could take you if he wanted, something that would be scary, is scary from someone so unstable, well… It’s all you could want, right now. Him, overpowering you, using that strength you know he has. You’ve felt it, had him whisper “You’d do whatever I told you, wouldn’t you, baby? Whatever I wanted? Just to feel me against you.. You’re so warm, so hot…” in your ear, when the lights were low enough that he couldn’t remember his lack of confidence.
Fuck, you wanted that Harry. The one between your legs was fine too, perfect for a tryst, but you wanted him to use you, ruin you, leave you fucked out. Be the right amount of toxic that you’re wet and overwhelmed. You want the taste of his body in your mouth, his cunt grinding on your face, his dick on your tongue.
“Fuck,” you audibly mutter yourself, and you know you’re wet and hot, and he looks at you, those dog-like eyes and a drunken crooked grin making you feel even warmer.
“Harry,” you say, your voice raspy, your lips pursing before you gain the confidence to continue.
“Let me do something for you, please,” you stare at him, and his grin goes slightly agape, his head moving up.
“Something for me?” He looks at you, seeming almost unsteady before he can gain his grin back.
You don’t want him unsteady. Salvage it by saying something funny. You grit your teeth for a moment, and then say, as strongly as you can…
“I think you taking advantage of me and using me like a whore would be really disco.”
If he had water or a pilsner in his mouth he would have spit it out. For as much as he uses the word disco too generously, it’s funny, even for him, and he lightens up, body straightening upright, sitting with his thighs at your sides on top of you.
“Okay. But you’re going to have to tell me what you mean by that if you want it to be disco.”
“You’re a detective, you can figure it out,” you respond, and he grabs at your chest, finding your nipple and squeezing it.
“I’m off the job, baby. Gotta do some of the work if you want me to use you like the whore you are…” He replies, almost pouting.
“Not very feminist of you to call people whores,” you say, and that makes him laugh harder than it should.
“You said it first. Besides, if you’re asking for it this much, what does that make you?”
“A brat who needs you to use me.” You quip back, and before you know it, he’s shifted positions, oddly fast for a big man when he tries, and he’s sitting on your chest. Fuck.
“Then tell me how you want me to use you.” He can’t hold back his goofy smile. Even trying to sound authoritative, he’s a drunk dog right now, wanting to please you, not quite the version of himself that had pressed you against the stall.
“I want you to ride my face,” you blurt out, gritting your teeth, and he looks at you in surprise.
“Really? You want a big sweaty man to ride your face?” He’s amused. Dick.
“Yes, you asshole, now take your fucking underwear off or-”
He muffles you with his hand and pulls your head up and himself closer, his clothed cunt groin close to you. He smells like man and musk and everything you want him to smell like, sweat and liquor and when he rubs his clothed cunt against your face, and you can feel his hard dick against the fabric, the wetness and the smell sending waves of desire through your chest and into your stomach and your groin, wanting him to leave his underwear somewhere after for you to huff until you fall asleep… Fuck, how could you find such a stupid idiot cop so hot that you’re begging for him to fuck your face like this?
He rocks his hips against you, grinding, and you almost see stars. So warm, so close… The smell of wetness and musk and man… You’re not sure if this is what the followers of the Innocences intended when they spoke of worship, but this damn well may be it. As he grinds against your face, you just fucking wish he’d take them off, moaning into his cunt, pleading…
He pulls back long enough, seeming out of breath, eyes wide, but you’re not going to let him stop so soon.
“Please, Harry,” you say, almost like a prayer. He’s as deliriously horny as you, and his hand grips your hair, and you want to call him Officer like some cheap slut looking for a quick buck trying to stroke a man’s ego. You manage to stop yourself from doing that by the skin of your teeth, because you’re pretty sure if you say that during sex you’re going to hate yourself after.
“You get what you ask for,” he says, far more excited than he was before, unable to hide it, shyness thrown to the wayside as he moves himself to pull off his underwear in a quick motion. Always strangely dextrose when he needs it, for a fumbling drunk, and he’s on top of you again, his wet cunt, his dick against your face, and you take his dick into your mouth. Sucking, sucking and he stops you so he can just use your face to grind against you while he moans. You’re not being touched, but you’re so horny it’s disgusting, he ruts against your face and you swear you can come from that. Come from hearing him moan, his weight on top of you, no way you can throw him off while he uses you. He holds onto the headboard, thrusting against you and you whimper under him.
He comes with a groan, your whimpers muffled by his groin, and when he pulls off of you, he’s a sweaty mess. You think, despite the damage he’s done to his body, he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. He’s dazed, slumped next to you, and you rub one out the fastest you ever have, coming with his body pressed against yours. When you stop shivering, he wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the back of your neck. Catching your breath, in the after-glow of your orgasm, you don’t even realize how sweaty and gross and drunk you both are.
He pulls back, breaths gentle.
“That was, really… Really hot,” he whispers, voice quiet, getting sleepy.
“Yeah?” you respond, his lips trailing your neck before he speaks again.
“Yeah. You should ask me to do it again. If you want, I mean,” he buries his face and sniffs you, and then rests his head.
“And it was pretty fucking disco.”
You laugh, a weak thing in your fatigue, but genuine nonetheless.
“Yeah, I’ll ask you to do it again. Just don’t disappear before I wake up, okay?” you want to turn to kiss his forehead, but his arm is too tight around you for that.
“I’ll wake you up first...” he mutters into your neck, and you know he means it.