Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ I Wish I Was Stronger...Somehow ( Chapter 19 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark. Oh, but I DO own original characters and creatures.

A/N: >.< This chapter creeped me out...and made me sad. But I did warn that it was going to be dark, and ooc...(sniffles)

Tri: LOL ‘Eddy’?! Erm...sorrah, but...no. He’s Junior, he’ll always be Junior to me XD In time, ya’ll will see what his part is concerning R...and...um...it’ll be worth it. >.< Just be patient...

I’m Alive: Well, in this chapt., R sure knows what’s going on. Um...let’s just say it made me really sad to write it. As for Junior, he does have a bigger part–and it’ll all come together soon. As for R’s feelings for him...just be patient....all will be revealed with mixtures of I-Promise-You-Soon chapts. to be. XD


Chapter Nineteen:
I Wish I Was Stronger...Somehow



Hotstreak knew where they were–he had visited this territory before he’d met the Hawkins’. It was the furthest he’d ever been north, and he really didn’t like the area. He’d rather the rugged mountains of Colorado, the flat grasslands of Oklahoma–but he’d be fine with this area. Standing outside, he was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, watching Richie try to catch at least one of the slippery sheep that continued to elude him. Charger made it more difficult by chasing both boy and animal, absolutely loving every minute of the game.

He had to wrinkle his nose, staring at the wooly animals with distaste. Sheep. What self-respecting cowboy lowered himself to bother with sheep? Frankly, he’d stick with cattle, because he knew nothing of sheep, and he’d rather not bother. But watching Richie frustrate himself with the animals was plenty amusing for him.

He chuckled as he heard the string of curses and rants coming from the blond, just entertained at the way his voice cracked, with his obvious determination. He studied the area–it was nice, he wouldn’t lie, but he was very suspicious with how close they still were to the Indians, and for that unnatural activity last night. He was on edge, expecting retaliation from angry Lakota, and another attack of underworld invaders. He was convinced that it was he they were looking after–and he scanned the horizon, looking for zombies, for any sign of other unnaturals. He wondered if Kangorr and the others had found Caine, yet, and wondered whatever happened to Virgil and the others. He reflected fondly on some of the memories he had with the Hawkins’ family before he realized he was watching Richie walk sullenly back to the house.

Amused at the tired exhaustion on the kid’s face, Hotstreak finished his cigarette, smacking his lips. “Did you catch one?” he asked innocently, knowing that he hadn’t.

Richie shot him a venomous look, then quickly shifted that into frustrated denial. Hotstreak found himself amazed at how much he wanted to reach out, to kiss that sullen pout away. It made him uncomfortable with how much expression he physically wanted to express.

“No...I don’t suppose you–”

“Ain’t no way I’m fuckin’ with those damn things,” Hotstreak said quickly, straightening away from the post. “Don’t even ask.”

Richie studied him for a few moments, looking ready to argue–then decided to drop the issue. He shrugged, rubbing his left thigh, then climbed the steps to walk into the house. Hotstreak tossed an annoyed look as a sheep’s high pitched squeal rang out through the peaceful clearing, Charger giving a victorious whinny as he sped off.

He followed Richie, spying him sitting at the dining room table, various sheets of paper spread around him, inking a pen. He’d seen the various pages full of detailed drawings of the animals they’d fought–and some he’d never even seen before. While he was impressed with the fact that Richie could memorize details the way he had, he wasn’t sure what it was all for. His limited knowledge of reading had kept him from reading the small notes that filled page after page.

Boots scuffing hardwood floor, he ambled over, Richie giving him a cautious glance as he settled the pen over page. Hotstreak stared down at a Hound drawing, furrowing his brow over the words that pointed at various areas of the body. He looked at him, Richie looking away quickly to prevent being caught staring at him.

“What’s this?” he asked gruffly, taking the page. “What’cha doin’ this for?”

Looking as if he weren’t going to answer, Richie fiddled with the pen. Then nervously shifted in his chair, clearing his throat. “I’m just...recording all that I’d seen of these creatures.”

“...Why?”

“Um, well–I’d rather know what I’m dealing with, and since they aren’t–aren’t exactly leaving us–alone, I just...thought I’d record what I already know of them, and what references I may use for the future in evading them, or killing them. I’m just detailing–”

Hotstreak sighed. “Shorter version, please...”

“Um...just curious. Figured I’d...just...detail what I saw.”

“Well–”

“You said you’ve fought them for a long time,” Richie interrupted, apologizing quickly before going on, “how are they killed? These...these things?”

“Hounds?”

“Hounds...why are they called that?”

“Dunno. Cuz–well, you seen ‘em up close, right?”

“Yes.”

“They can’t see ya. Really, what they’re doin’ is sniffin’. They sniff ya out.”

Richie was confused, recalling that they’d attacked based on movement. Seeing this, Hotstreak gave a frustrated sigh, as if explaining was very strenuous for him. He pointed at a detailed page of a Hound’s head, trying not to marvel at the precise rendering of the creature. Apparently, the boy was an artist to go along with those smarts of his.

“They ain’t got no eyes. It’s just...like, y’know them lizards that blend in with their, like, surroundings? Like into dirt an’ wood? It all distractions. They can ‘sniff’ out movement. Kinda funky.”

“I....I don’t understand. How can they when their noses are so small–?”

“I ain’t no fuckin’ doctor, I dunno! They just do!” Hotstreak said stubbornly. “But they ain’t got no eyes. An’ you kin see their nose workin’ when they’re lookin’ for you.”

“If they don’t have any eyes, how can they be looking for you?”

Hotstreak sighed, tossing the sheet aside. “Stop askin’ me things. I just know what I know.”

Richie was frustrated by this, glaring at the sheet of paper–but he wrote what Hotstreak told him just in case. If only he could see why and how the creature worked–! Could it be that their anatomy and functions of directional knowledge resemble those of bats, and worked by some sort of sonar reflection? He had the sudden need to have a creature at hand, to study it.

“They are impervious to bullets, to zombie attacks, to other methods of–and your coat! It’s their fur, but how–? How are those...Mad Men? How are they able to take their fur–?”

“When me an’ Blayne were workin’, we’d take their hides off. Like, smoke choked them–all that heat they breathed in killed them from the inside.”

“Well, carbon dioxide is produced from smoke, and it’s a very poisonous and dangerous gas that will rob oxygen from the lungs–”

Hotstreak waved that away impatiently, having no idea what ‘carbon dioxide’ was. “An’ when they died, we’d just peel their skin away before they cooled.”

Richie was confused at that, too–weren’t Hounds impervious to heat? If so, it must have taken a great deal of heat to loosen the demon’s skin from its body. Then he wondered who Blayne was. Frustrated, he set those pages aside, and drew out one of a Ghoul.

“Ah. Bad dudes that deserved ta die,” Hotstreak said, proud that he knew. “They just them bad spirits. Sorta like...they were, like, brought back to do shit. They torture people before killin’ them–kinda like–you ran into one, right?”

“A shadow man. He just chased me and shot me.”

“More’n likely, tryin’ to make it easier for them Hounds to get ya. They’re a bit slow.”

Richie added more notes to the page. “How are they killed?”

“Fuckin’–not normal ammo. Blayne figured on usin’ Mad Men’s ammo. Must be specialer than the ones we use.”

“Who is Blayne? He sounds very intelligent...”

Hotstreak was annoyed, but he muttered, “Just a friend. We grew up this thing together, practically.”

“Mad Men’s ammo...” Richie was getting more and more frustrated in that he had to see this ammunition himself. He made a note on that, and moved on. “And they–they are bad souls, too?”

“Dunno. They ain’t nothin’ we recognize. Just bones with clothes. Sorta like you.”

Insulted, Richie tossed him an annoyed glance, but looked down at his arms.

Grinning, Hotstreak had noticed the weight and muscle gain, but felt all warm and tingly upon wondering how the kid’s body would feel under his hands. Just thinking about it while looking at him made his pants tight. He quickly sat at the other end of the table to hide the evidence.

“They die when shot in the head. Seems their only weakness,” Hotstreak added with a shrug, picking at his nails. He began chewing on them to trim them.

Richie tried not to be disgusted, wondering when Hotstreak last washed his hands. He set that paper aside. But he couldn’t help but notice that Hotstreak’s eyes were a pleasant shade of emerald–darkening whenever riled, light whenever they caught the sun. He’d never seen green eyes that shade, before, and they captivated him whenever he looked into them. He was also guilty to admit that green was his favorite color. He cleared his throat.

“Spectres?”

“I told you about them.”

Richie didn’t remember, frustrated at not retaining this information. But he decided not to press because he wasn’t that comfortable with Hotstreak to prod, too fearful of physical repercussion.

Hotstreak looked at him, sneaking a glance his way as he chewed. Richie had such nice hands–long, skinny fingers, soft palms, knuckles awkward and bony; he felt his eyes glaze over as he delved into a brief fantasy, trying to imagine a handjob given by this kid.

Richie produced a picture of the Third. Hotstreak felt that fantasy slip away, staring in disgust at the detailed rendering.

“I’ve never seen those things, before,” he admitted. “Sure they been around, though. Them purdy little bracelets they got goin’ on are things I remember hearin’ a lot back then.”

“They are gruesome creatures,” Richie agreed, studying the drawing. “Very fast. Dark. Almost humanoid. I wonder if they are direct soldiers of this man you keep talking about....? Caine?”

“Caine...you ain’t ever seen ‘im, huh?”

“No.”

“We’d never seen this ‘him’, before, either.”

Richie frowned, remembering hearing snatches of conversation that concerned the two. He thought of that night when Junior was possessed–delivering a message to Shiv and Ebon. Clearing his throat again, he said, “That night in Runner’s Valley, something made Junior talk to those men. That Asian and that black man? He mentioned a ‘little lady’.”

Hotstreak scrunched his face up with thought, trying to remember a lady in all his travels with Blayne.

“Dunno of some ‘lady’,” he muttered, a touch angrily.

Richie caught the angry tone, looking at him sharply to judge his mood. Figuring it was because of him, he gathered all his papers and set them aside. He rose from the table, excusing himself.

Later that day, Hotstreak was scraping off the last of his facial air with the edge of his knife, wincing at the feeling of newly bared skin. He ran a hand over his newly cleared face, then began working on his mustache, trimming it to a better maintained piece. He was marveling over his work when Richie knocked at his door, staring at him with a sort of studious expression once he caught sight of Hotstreak cleaning up.

“What?” he muttered, concentrating on trimming away curls of auburn that tickled his lip.

For a few moments, Richie didn’t answer–all cleaned up, Hotstreak was rather pleasant to look at. That beard had been so nasty and distracting, and–the man had his shirt off. His eyes were straying over the displayed muscle, the smooth skin. He promptly forgot what he was about to say, taking in broad shoulders and thick arms, running his eyes over the tapered wings of his sides. He grew mortified once he realized that intense feelings of arousal began warming his body. He quickly turned and walked back out, Hotstreak looking back at him with some confusion.

Retreating to his room, Richie slammed the door, awkwardly walking over to the bed. He was feeling shamed for feeling this way–over a man, nonetheless!–and he’d thought he’d never feel this way; especially after everything that had happened to him.

With traitorous intent, his hormones worked on reminding him of that first night he’d seen Hotstreak’s body, and his face flushed. He’d tasted his skin, he’d had sex with the man–and it told him that it would have felt good if he’d allowed himself to enjoy it.

Having been awakened to sex and its accompanying designs had been a cruel and hateful experience; but now...now it felt as if it were okay for him to know what it felt like. To wonder if he’d enjoy it–he’d tried to make himself think of doing it with women, but since his experience had been with men...he felt that he didn’t get aroused this same way as he would thinking of women.

Feeling incredibly ashamed and dirty, he clenched his hair with both hands, trying to will away those vivid images and feelings of heat that tickled the bottom of his stomach.

Hotstreak walked into his room without warning, wiping at his face with a towel, scowling. Richie was surprised by his entrance, jumping as he looked over–treated to another up close sight of his exposed chest and stomach; his mouth promptly salivated, noticeably taking in the taper of his waist, the flat brown nipples, the sparse spread of light hair...

“What’d you want?” Hotstreak asked impatiently, tugging at his hair. He was going to take a bath later–may as well. He’d kept clean with trips to any available stream or river. He then took in the flushed features of the blond, and immediately attuned himself to the sudden tension that he could feel. It astounded him with a forceful blow as he realized that Richie was checking him out–those eyes of his darting across his bared torso with noticeable appreciation.

He would have whooped and dove in for the attack hadn’t the blond rose quickly, darting into the separate wash room with a loud, “Nothing!” before slamming the door shut.

Standing there with a dawning grin on his face, Hotstreak stared at the shut door, then looked down at himself. With a mixture of arrogance and pleased pride, he flexed his muscles, making sure that he wasn’t going flabby, or that things hadn’t changed the last time he’d seen himself bare. Feeling much better than before, he strolled out the room with a spring in his step.

010101010110

Adam was surprised when, while exploring Luna on his own, he came upon Junior. He’d already learned that the town was being ran by Alva, and while the three were surprised, they weren’t for very long. It was obvious Alva was in control of the situation, and had already garnered the loyalty and dependence upon the survivors that had flocked to the small town based on word that the man could provide safety with his growing army. Adam and the others had figured Junior would be happier, here–that he’d return to his controlling, abusive ways, but Adam was startled to see that the man was packing his horse with enough supplies to last him a long while.

“Hey,” he said upon approaching, Junior glancing up with him with a sullen expression. “You off again?”

Junior tightened the straps around his bedroll, glancing away at Casey, who was standing nearby. The older cowboy was trying to change Junior’s mind about leaving, but he wasn’t having very much success with it. Casey studied Adam for a few moments, looked at Junior, then quietly left without another word. Junior figured he was off to tell Alva about it–which he didn’t mind at all. He looked at Adam.

“Yeah. I ain’t stayin’ here.”

Adam’s face was so startled, that Junior scowled at him.

“You ain’t? Why?” Adam blurted. “I mean, yer daddy runs this show. What’cha mean, you ain’t stayin’?”

“I ain’t doin’ what he says, no mo’,” Junior practically spit. “Just a worthless old man. Cares nothin’ ‘cept for what he can do for himself.”

Adam’s eyebrows raised at the level of resentment and hurt in that tone.

“‘Sides...I thought long and hard ‘bout what I been doin’ ta people. An’...an’ I ain’t about to go back to that, anymore. Gotta...gotta just....get away from it. Figure I could move on. Don’t know where to go, but...”

Adam gave a slight smile, watching the horse’s ears settle flat along its skull, then flick upward again as Junior untied the reins from the post. He was thankful to hear that, though.

“That’s good, man,” he said truthfully. “I mean...thinkin’ an’ realizin’ what you been doin’ wrong. But where you plan on goin’? Heard there ain’t nothin’ around these parts, anymore. Them armies already done come through.”

“I...I honestly don’t know,” Junior confessed, looking sheepish. “Just far enough away from my father as I can git, I guess. Fuckin’ ole man–he’s just a selfish piece o’shit.”

“Well...good luck, man. I...I hope ya’ll find some peace somewhere. Guess there ain’t no harm done in wantin’ ta get away from it all. It all good.”

Junior shot him an uncertain look, unsure of what to say to that.

Adam just watched as Junior led the horse away from the post. He watched people clear him a path, and then the man was mounted and riding toward the west, heading off to wherever. Glancing around himself, noting that many of the armed men were taking note of Junior’s leave, Adam turned to find Virgil, to report what he’d found.

010101010110

He was staring at the kid, again. Listening to his soft breathing, watching him sleep. He had been wakened from his own sleep, his body strumming with sexual need. It was buzzing with it, now, making his body tight, making all parts of him heated. He was battling himself as he watched Richie sleep–kept debating over force and consent, struggling with it throughout every pro and con. If he waited for Richie’s eventual give-in to temptation, he didn’t know how long that would take. Who knows what would happen tomorrow? What if he didn’t ever have that chance, again? What if Richie never consented?

The darkness was thick, but he’d adjusted to it. The candle burning from his open room gave him enough light to see the sweet curve of the kid’s lips, the fluttering of long lashes. That urge to touch him, to run his hands over all available surface of his body made Hotstreak feel frustrated and needy. It made him feel helpless and angry. His stomach was tight with all these conflicts. He felt that he wasn’t a rapist. He didn’t have to take anybody by force. He hadn’t, before. Not until...not until Richie came along, and he found himself totally helpless to his conflicting feelings. Knowing that he was obsessed with him, finding him utterly beautiful and captivating–but also knowing that Richie would be out of his reach.

Utterly wary and cautious, scared of anybody that showed any sort of desire to him. And Hotstreak wasn’t sure what he wanted more–his consent, or his defeat. His own impatience burned at him, as well as hopeless conflict.

His body continued to strum with need–he’d never felt so much need, before. Never for Maria–never for any other person. Just him.

He could get away with anything–there wasn’t any law, here. No one with a voice of reason; all that he knew were dead, or missing. They were the only souls out here–and would be for who knows how long. An Indian seeking revenge could kill them at any time–or Richie would be taken from him, as was everyone else he’d ever cared about.

Choices were pulling him into that direction–take or regret.

He didn’t want to regret–what if the next time Richie was taken from him, he’d never see him again?

No one could stop him from getting what he wanted–eventually, the kid would start to see it that way and submit. What if he learned to love him back, knowing that he’d have no other choice, no other option?

The more Hotstreak thought of it that way, the more he began to see that it was best. He began to see that force was necessary.

No one could stop him.

He could overpower Richie easily.

There wasn’t any voice of reason; and there wasn’t a way Richie could leave him. He should be used to it, now.

Then again...Hotstreak wouldn’t have to be abusive. He wouldn’t treat him so horribly like the others–he couldn’t raise a fist to him. He couldn’t yell or bark at him angrily. He wouldn’t starve or neglect him. He couldn’t do any of that–but he couldn’t take knowing that he’d never have a chance with him, again.

Maybe he could make it easier for him–make Richie want it as much as he did. He’d make it good for him–he would kiss and caress, show him that sex felt good. And if he had to force his way with that, then...then that’s how it was going to be. He had to prove himself, and if that’s what he had to do...

It was decided, then. He decided that was the best route. His groin was aching, dick heavy and full–he knew sinking into Richie’s body would be bliss. Touching him, tasting him–his mouth grew wet with anticipation, and he shifted from his chair, venturing quietly to the bed. His hands were shaking as they touched, just barely, the quilt that had been pulled up to Richie’s chest. The smell of the kid’s musk and sleep scent touched his nostrils, making them flare as his stomach did somersaults.

Richie was unaware of him, deep in sleep–he didn’t even shift when Hotstreak pulled the quilt away from him, climbing onto the bed to sit uncomfortably at his left side. He gazed over his form, taking in the slender frame, the lightly curled fingers at his head. He rose on his knees to unzip his pants, freeing his cock from the confinement, stroking lightly upon the thin foreskin as he gazed down at sleep-slackened lips. Finding that task completed, he hoped that he wouldn’t cum soon, and reached out to very lightly run his fingertips over Richie’s stomach, disturbing the material there. The warmth of his body warmed his fingers, and he pressed down more firmly, smoothing down his shirt.

He was holding his breath, waiting for him to wake up, but it was obvious Richie was still asleep. Licking his lips, eyes glazed over with purpose, Hotstreak then ran his fingers over the front of his underwear, finding his limp dick. Gently, he started stroking, using friction to coax life into that still cock, and looked over sharply upon movement. A soft sound made from Richie’s throat broke the silence, and Hotstreak was happy upon feeling it harden under his coaxing. He began applying more pressure, shifting in position to touch himself at the same time, watching the blond’s face as he started to shift more.

He straddled his thighs, releasing himself to lean over Richie, to touch his lips with his own. Richie awoke immediately upon that contact, automatically stiffening at his presence. He immediately threw up his arms, protesting with wordless sound, and Hotstreak stopped stroking him to catch his hands, pressing his lips more firmly against his. He trapped his legs with his own as they started to kick, and both of them struggled atop of the bed in the darkness.

Not wanting to get rough, but needing to get his way, Hotstreak began to shush and whisper incoherent words meant to comfort. It only made Richie struggle hard, growing increasingly frustrated as he realized he couldn’t push the man away, or stop himself from realizing the response he’d already given body-wise.

A keening sound left his mouth as Hotstreak continued his ministrations despite the softening of his member, his mustache tickling his skin as kisses moved over his jaw and neck.

He wrapped his fingers into shaggy red hair, yanking hard. Hotstreak went with the movement upon surprise, but stopped touching him to grab his hand, pining it over his head. Forcefully, he began kissing him again, biting his lip when Richie tried to turn his head away, giving sounds of frustrated despair.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Hotstreak whispered harshly, being driven by this response. It made his stomach turn, but at the same time–just feeling Richie’s body under his made him want to continue every minute. “I can make it good fo’ you, too. I can make you feel just as good, too.”

With that, he let go of his hand, reaching for his shirt, and both of them struggled against each other as he sought to rip that open, wanting everything bared to him. At the sound of buttons popping, the bed squeaking with their movements, he felt his excitement climb as pale flesh was revealed to him. Immediately, ignoring the repeated shoves and hits against his head, he lowered his lips to one nipple, tasting with a sound of satisfaction. Blindly, he caught Richie’s hands and pined them up over his head once more, mindlessly enjoying the flavor of his nipple.

Richie cried out angrily, fighting to get his hands free–anything to escape, feeling increasingly sickened and scared–furiously disappointed as his body responded to the actions. Unable to get his arms loose, he laid there, staring angrily into the darkness.

“You aren’t supposed to be this way!” he screamed, voice cracking, furious helplessness evident. “You aren’t supposed to be this way!”

Hotstreak heard that, and felt pained–but only momentarily. He lifted his mouth from that nipple, feeling his chest constrict; but he was working on mindless drive, lowering his mouth to the other. He’d already decided, and nothing was going to stop him. But he was determined to show Richie that he wanted him, all of him–not just the act. He wanted to show him that it could be good between them–Richie should be grateful that Hotstreak wasn’t just taking, not like the others had.

Hotstreak was determined to show him that sex could be good, which was why he was touching him, tasting him.

He lifted his mouth from the other nipple, taking in his face before lowering his head again, to kiss him. Richie angrily turned his head to avoid his mouth, jerking upon feeling Hotstreak’s mustache against his skin as thin lips found his neck. His hands were shifted, pined together underneath one large hand, the other slithering down his body, over his hip–once again finding his dick and gently gripping it.

He cried out again, lifting his hips in an effort to dislodge his hand, but Hotstreak held on firmly, stroking slowly and firmly, his lips moving over his throat and collarbone. His mustache tickled his flesh, and his traitorous body heated and tightened upon feeling his tongue gently gliding over his collarbone.

Richie quieted, giving occasional frustrated grunts as he suppressed more angry cries, just wanting to get away from this. He didn’t want it–he didn’t want Hotstreak to be this way. The man had been kind to him–hadn’t abused him like the others. And he was doing it again–! Taking without permission–! He didn’t want him to be this way! He didn’t want to do this, not when he was starting to warm up to the man. Not when he hadn’t completely accepted his own feelings of the man.

Hotstreak lifted his head again, and eyed him for a moment–Richie didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing his betrayed expression, shooting him a hateful one instead. He didn’t want to show this man he had been starting to like him. He swallowed tightly as Hotstreak lowered his face again, touching his lips gently–his fingers tightened around his wrists. For a few minutes, the redhead kissed him, trying to coax a response from him–it was ridiculous. Trying to seek reciprocation when Richie just hated him at the moment.

A tongue swiped his mouth, but he refused to open it–he hated his body for responding to the continuous strokes of Hotstreak’s hand, turning his head as he gave a frustrated growl. Tears burned at his eyelids, but he didn’t want them to fall–remembering how men hated seeing that sort of thing. He shut his eyes as he felt Hotstreak’s mouth on his throat again, his hair tickling his flesh–hated how his skin rippled with ticklish heat upon contact.

“Don’t hate me,” Hotstreak whispered against his neck, suddenly stopping his stroking–pressing his face against Richie. “I need you. I can’t stop thinking of you. I can’t stop myself from feelin’ this way.”

He sounded desperate, pathetic–but Richie’s hate burned hotly, his eyes staring blankly into the darkness. His hands were released, and Hotstreak’s were trailing all over his bared skin, pressing with an insistent touch–as if trying to learn all of him.

“Don’t talk to me,” he snarled, his throat tight with all his feelings. “Don’t try to be nice to me, damn you. Just take what you want–! I can’t even stop you! Just take it!”

“I don’t want you to hate me...I just want you to see that it can be good between us,” Hotstreak continued in that harsh whisper of his, his fingers sliding over Richie’s stomach, feeling it tighten. His accent had thickened considerably, making it almost hard to understand him. “I want you to be just as satisfied, like me.”

“No–!”

“I want you to feel good, too...I want you to be good with this.”

“–you’re deluded! You’re just like the others!” Richie cried angrily, his voice shattering the quiet once more, giving another frustrated cry as his nipples were pinched, gently rolled between rough fingertips. Fingers were replaced with mouth once more, and he felt his back arch, pressing his chest into the sensation–it was enough to make him burn with hatred for himself. He stopped that movement as soon as he felt himself doing it, pressing hard against the mattress, trying to shift his nipple out of that suctioning mouth.

Hotstreak stopped him from moving away, his hands strangely gentle as they held him down. The chilly air combined with his saliva made Richie’s nipple tingle with sensation. The redhead was pressing small kisses along his jaw line, mustache tickling his skin–he turned his head to the side once he realized Hotstreak was going to kiss him again, giving a frustrated noise as the redhead pressed his own head against Richie’s; his arms moved around him awkwardly, into a forceful hug that screamed of desperation and pathetic need.

“I need you,” Hotstreak whispered harshly against his cheek, his nose jabbing Richie’s cheekbone. Richie tried to move his head, giving an angry growl at the whispered words. “I need you so bad...can’t ever get you out of my head.”

“Fuck you!”

“Don’t hate me...it can be good.” His fingers caught Richie’s chin, holding his face in place. He placed kisses over his lips, and continued to do so even when those lips were sucked between teeth with stubborn withdrawal. “I won’t be like them. Takin’ without appreciation. Yer beautiful, the most beautiful boy I ever done seen my entire life. I’d never raise a hand to you. I can’t be wit’out you.”

Sucking in a hissing breath, dark obscenities of disbelief flying to mind, Richie stopped struggling. Not because of the promises...but because it was all so damn pointless. There was nothing he could do to stop him, and there wasn’t anyone around to help him. He’d just wear himself out, anyway. And what of afterward? And what if Hotstreak grew frustrated and angry, and went against his harsh promises?

A large palm against his cheek had his face turning, and Hotstreak touched his lips with his own, gently tasting, fingertips stroking his skin with utter tenderness, as if he were something fragile and precious. He didn’t return the kisses, angrily staring at his face, feeling wetness fall over his cheeks. He hated this–hated every moment. Just when he started to trust the man, started to like him–and he did this.

Without really thinking, he bit those lips, hard enough to for Hotstreak to draw back with a startled cry. He tasted copper on his teeth, breathing heavily as he felt the man lift away from him to cover his own mouth.

But it didn’t deter him–not at all. His underwear was pulled from his body, and Richie went along with it because he felt he hadn’t a choice, anyway. Might as well as get it over with. He didn’t have to participate, or enjoy–just let the bastard have what he apparently wanted.

Angrily, he watched Hotstreak remove his own unbuttoned shirt, muscle flexing. He didn’t have to touch this man–just let him have what he wanted. Make it go by faster. Even in the darkness, he could see the straining lust on Hotstreak’s face, the way green eyes stared down at him, seemingly devouring him with look alone. He stared back at him, feeling betrayal cross his face–he couldn’t hide it, anymore.

Large hands moved over his body again, and Richie was angry at its response. At the way it heated in the wake of his touch. He shifted his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, feeling both sick and frustrated as he felt Hotstreak shift over him, his lips moving down his chest, over his stomach–mustache tickling his flesh with every action. When the redhead came to his dick, Richie felt his gut twist violently, for his chest to tighten upon feeling the heated suction of his mouth on that part of him.

He grimaced, shifting as Hotstreak began to suck clumsily at him, tasting and touching him. Slurps and heavy breathing broke the silence, and even as he strained not to feel anything, his body thought otherwise.

Enough heat and sensation had gathered in response to having his dick sucked, and despite his thoughts, his fingers were clenching the sheets, angry hisses leaving his tightened lips. He came with a harsh cry, hearing Hotstreak choke and gag upon tasting his cum; Richie wanted to punch and react with violence upon the reaction he’d given in response to the sexual action. Breathing harshly, he pressed his head hard into the pillow, feeling shivers flit through him as he felt Hotstreak licking every trace of cum from his body, fingers digging into his hips to hold him in place.

And then when the big man shifted over him, gentle lips touching his own tight ones, Richie gave in because that was all he could do.

“I love you,” Hotstreak whispered harshly against his cheek, his hands curling into Richie’s hair, tilting his head up so that he could kiss him desperately. “I loved you since I first saw you.”

I hate you, was all Richie thought, angrily scrunching up his face. But with deadened feelings, he started to return the kisses. Running on mechanics. I hate you for doing this to me.

In the end, after doing everything he could think of to worship Richie’s body, to make him come twice, Hotstreak couldn’t even get it up to penetrate him. That left him frustrated and angry at himself, trying hard to accomplish it–he knew he wanted it. He wanted to possess Richie’s body that way, and to satisfy himself. But no amount of manipulation to get his limp dick up to accomplish the task.

In frustration, he stopped trying. He was ashamed of himself–for being unable to prove himself that way, and for being unable to stop himself from thinking this way, for accepting this course of action. He could feel Richie’s hate–could feel his eyes burning at him, and that wasn’t what he wanted at all. Strangely, it wasn’t what he’d thought of earning after all was said and done. He’d expected Richie’s defeat, but not his hate. That wasn’t what he wanted–not at all. It was different.

Slick with sweat, exhausted over what he’d done tonight, Hotstreak let his chafed dick go, and slumped over Richie’s body, feeling how rigid and stiff he was under his touch. Breathing in deeply of the blond’s sweaty skin and musk, pushing his nose into his neck, Hotstreak hugged him close.

Richie stared out at a point in the ceiling, seeing that dawn was lighting the room with its faint ray of colors. He was exhausted with his own feelings, and with those of sexual release. But he felt hateful and empty at the same time–not filled with helplessness and fright like he had at the saloon, but...just...hateful. Accepting of what had been done, and that people, even those he’d thought he could trust and like, were all the same inside. Evil, manipulative–wanting something beyond what they pretended.

Though he was tired, he didn’t sleep. He could tell that Hotstreak wasn’t sleeping, either. He was glad that impotence struck at such time–that this was a common problem. He secretly sneered at the fact–that while Hotstreak exuded testosterone, the man had problems with impotency and premature ejaculation. It was fitting. It served him right.

When the room was bright with morning, Charger whinnying for attention and food outside, neither had slept. Hotstreak was still holding him–he exuded a strange sort of desperation, Richie felt; and when the man lifted his head to look at him, Richie couldn’t feel what he had, before.

He lowered his eyes as that intense green stare seemed to pierce into him–he didn’t move when he felt gentle fingertips touch small areas at his neck, his chest.

“I left marks on you,” Hotstreak whispered, as if speaking aloud would break some sort of magic spell. Richie thought he was just pathetic. He didn’t bother him with an expression, lying stiffly within his arms. He could feel the man’s eyes looking him over–felt himself jolt and tighten under the fingertips that traced tenderly over his ribs, down his stomach; to rim his navel and brush his inner thighs.

His jaw tightened as he felt lips kiss tenderly at his limp member. And the bed squeaked lightly as the big man shifted, his red hair spilling over Richie’s throat as he laid his head over his chest. Arms shifted around him, hugging his middle; he could feel Hotstreak’s eyelashes brush against his skin as he blinked with his thoughts.

“Don’t hate me.”

The whispered words made Richie jolt. They were the first in a long while. His stomach clenched with angry heat upon hearing them, again.

“You’re all I have,” Hotstreak whispered, almost inaudibly. “You’re all I have left...can’t you see that? You’re all my light in th’ dark. I just want you to love me, too.”

Liar, Richie thought angrily. He would not feel pity or empathy for the man. Not after what he did.

“Jus’ wanted ta show you what I feel. What I felt. Jus’ wanna be that one person that treats ya nice. Can’t you see that? How can I show you? How can I prove to ya that all I want is your love?”

Never, Richie thought, hearing teeth grind as his jaw clenched.

“Yer all that is precious to me, after all I lost,” Hotstreak continued, in that same whispered desperation. “Just...jus’ want yer love. That’s all. All my light in my dark.”

Insane, pathetic bastard. You’re just like the rest...