Take It, Need It

[amuly]

Title: Take It, Need It
Pairing: Arthur/Steve (The Mechanic)
Word Count: 1,834
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After Steve fails at being pedo-bait, he needs some hard fucking to set him straight. Total PWP.
Warnings: unlubricated rough!sex
A/N: I had to. SHUT UP. This was entirely necessary. It was. If anyone has a comm where this should go, lemme know. Oh, and any inaccuracies in say, the fact that the house may have wood floors instead of carpet, I blame on the fact that I wasn't paying attention to interior design when Ben Foster was on screen.

 

Steve winced as the bit of tape caught on his cut, yanking and tugging on the broken-open skin. A fresh well of blood started, dripping down into his eye. “Fuck.” Steve glared into the mirror at his reflection. Fucking cock-sucking hell. He wanted to punch something. Something that wouldn't punch back, this time.

It wasn't so much the cuts, and bruises, and possible broken fucking ribs. It was the way Arthur had just handed him the first-aid kit, like he was some sort of fucking disappointment or something. So Arthur had said “clean”. So what. The guy was dead, wasn't he? And if he was some big-shot, known mechanic, what did it matter that someone knew he got offed? People in his – their – line of work died all the time. Violent, bloody deaths.

Steve hissed as he pressed a fresh band aid over the the cut, tugging the skin over his eye tightly shut.

And even more, apparently everyone knew that he liked the boys. Who's to say one didn't get a little to fresh, or that he hadn't gotten a little too fresh and spooked the kid? Maybe the twink got lucky. Maybe the twink had it rough for a few years, learned how to look after himself. Maybe the twink was fucking Steve, and he didn't go down as fucking easy as he looked.

“Fuck!” Steve wanted to punch the mirror, the wall, the bathtub, anything. But this was all Arthur's shit, and Arthur would fucking kill him.

Or hand him a trowel and some grout to fix it without saying a word, same way he had handed him this pathetic fucking first aid kid. Seriously, what kind of rudimentary first-aid kit was this for a mechanic to have? No morphine, no tourniquets, no Oxy or... or packs of donor blood, or... something. Just band-aids and gauze. He could have picked this up at Walmart.

Steve picked up the little tin and turned it over in his hands. There was a faded barcode on the back. Target, not Walmart.

He wanted to throw the smug little tin across the bathroom, maybe slam it into the mirror, maybe bash Arthur over the head with it, or in the back of the knee. Steve liked bashing people in the back of the knee. Poetic justice. Or something. Not really, but...

Where was fucking Arthur, anyway? Probably playing with his damn records. Or organizing everything just-so on his fancy little hidden wall.

Steve stepped into the living room. Or polishing his shoes, apparently. The fucking asshole was sitting on the sofa, polishing his damn loafers. Probably some fancy Italian leather things. It was a wonder this guy was straight – Steve would have put good money on him being a fag, if it weren't for the woman he knew Arthur went to like clockwork to get his rocks off. He hadn't seen her, yet, or gone out with Arthur when they met up, but he could tell. Guy would wind up tighter and tighter every day, then one night he would go out, and come home, reeking of sex and Chanel No 5 and satisfaction. The next morning his posture at the wet bar in the kitchen was just a little less straight, just an iota more relaxed. Steve wasn't blind.

“If you're finished cleaning up you can take a shower and get to bed. We start early again tomorrow.”

The urge to throw the first aid kit at Arthur's head surged up inside Steve again – even more violently than before, now that he was faced with that smug, perfectly-shaved scalp.

There was a long pause, as Steve stared at the back of Arthur's head, and Arthur continued to clean his shoe, the gentle swoosh-woosh of the bristles over the leather the only noise, outside of the blood pounding through Steve's head. Fuck. He needed some Tylenol or something. Fucking kit. He could really use some Oxy right about now. Fucking ribs weren't exactly going to feel like sunshine and roses anytime soon.

“You've got some adrenaline to work off. Go out. Find a girl.”

“'The fuck you know about what I need? How I feel?”

Everything Arthur did was so precise, so planned. When he stopped sliding the brush over the shoes, it was as if he was actually finished, like he had planned to stop just then, as if Steven's words had no bearing on his actions.

The shoes were laid on the floor, just in front of the couch. The brush went in its case on the table, along with the polish, which got sealed up, and everything bundled and buckled and clasped, until each item was in its place. It was only then that Arthur stood up, turned around, and faced Steve.

Steve almost took a step back. Almost. It wasn't that Arthur looked particularly murderous. It was that he looked indifferent. Fucking indifferent, just like his dad had always looked at him.

Without realizing he was doing it, Steven leapt forward, socking Arthur in the jaw and tackling him to the floor. His knuckles hurt like little bitches the moment he made contact, causing him to wince and pull back even as all the air got knocked out of him by his busted ribs as he fell on top of Arthur.

While he was still reeling from the sharp pain lancing through every inch of his body – real smart, attacking someone that's 100% muscly death not hours after he almost had his ass handed to him in a complete bloodbath – Steve felt his world twisted, turned, until his cheek was pressing against rough carpet, and his arm pulled behind him. What felt like a knee, but could have been an elbow, pressed down onto his back, crushing his ribs slowly, painfully, against the floor. An inch more, a single twitch from either man, and Steve was sure he'd suffocate under the weight of his own busted ribs.

“You don't get to do that.”

Out of options, Steve still didn't want to give up, turn passive, like some sort of dog with his tail between his legs and tilting his neck aside for the pack leader. “Do what?”

“Use me to burn off your adrenaline.”

Figures, Arthur would be able to tell Steve what he had been doing, when Steve himself hadn't even really known. “Fuck you.”

“You don't get to do that, either.”

Maybe it was the concussion, or the way his vision was going spotty from lack of air, or the sheer amount of pain that he could feel all over his body, but Steve couldn't hear a joke in those words. Arthur had sounded serious. Not wry, not ironic, not sarcastic. He had sounded like they had already agreed on the sex, and were just arguing over position, at this point. The fucking was already a done deal: now Arthur just wanted to make clear who was fucking who.

Steve's cock throbbed.

Maybe not every part of his body was in pain.

Abruptly Steve knew what he had to do – how to get what he needed. He ignored the niggling thought in his mind that Arthur had once again known what he needed long before Steve himself had. If he dwelled on that too much, he'd just get angry again. Angrier. And that would just be counter productive.

With as much power as he could muster in his bruised and broken state, Steve pushed back, against the knee/elbow that was keeping him down. “Do you?” he spat back, words muffled in the carpeting.

Steve couldn't help the cry – not cry, grunt, manly growl, groan – that clawed its way out of his throat when Arthur yanked his jeans down to his thighs. There was no preparation, just the sound of Arthur spitting into his hand and the rough tear of his cock breaching Steve's hole. He cried out, air forcing its way from his lungs and leaving them vacant, as he tried to relax himself around Arthur. But it was too much, too tight, and it fucking hurt like something was tearing.

“Isn't this what you wanted?”

Arthur was fucking him into the carpet, now: short, brutal thrusts that rubbed Steve's insides raw at the same time that they forced his cock against the carpet, giving him friction burns. He thought he hissed, but the sound that reached his ears was just a throaty moan, all desperation and arousal.

Trying to gain back some control, Steve pushed against the carpet, lifting himself onto elbows against the protest of creaking ribs and a body covered in bruises. He had barely managed a single angled thrust back before Arthur's hand was on his neck, shoving his face back down to the floor.

“Stay.”

Steve keened, pressing back against Arthur. Fuck, fuck. Every inch of him ached: his cuts and bruises, his broken ribs, his asshole. Cutting through all those other sensations, though, was his throbbing cock, which felt fit to explode at just the slightest extra stimulation. Behind him, Arthur continued to fuck into him hard and fast, hips slamming into him like they had something to prove.

When Arthur came, shuddering and grunting his way through his orgasm, Steve was still hard, panting on the carpet. A growl spilled from his throat as Arthur pulled out, leaving Steve's asshole clenching and raw. As come started to drip out and down his thighs, the inside of Steve's passage burned, come stinging the raw wounds.

“Get yourself off.”

Without even bothering to lift his face from where it was still pressed against the carpet, Steve slipped a hand between himself and the floor, tugging at his cock. Behind him, he could hear Arthur shifting: moving, but not leaving. The thought of those intense eyes watching his hips moving against the carpet, waiting for him to come, just spurred Steve on, coiling arousal tighter in his gut. With one last grate of the heel of his hand against his erection, he came, spilling out onto the carpet and over his cut and bruised hand.

For a brief moment, the endorphins from his orgasm wiped away any sensations of pain, or exhaustion, or soreness. For a blissful second Steve was floating, buoyant, weightless, and high as any Oxycontin could make him.

A towel landing on his head cut short the afterglow, pulling Steve back viciously to reality. All the aches and pains came back in a rush, causing Steve to groan and writhe on the ground.

“Clean yourself up. Five am, we're going for a run.”

As Steve slipped into the shower, washing the come and blood off his body and letting the hot water soothe his screaming muscles, he realized abruptly that he hadn't felt angry for a full half hour.

He snapped off the water and grabbed a cigarette as he stepped out of the shower.

Fucking Arthur.