It's only because he's fucking gorgeous.
He's an asshole, a stuck-up loser, one of those kids that laughs loudly and pretends to care about class for five minutes before erupting into a fit of high-pitched, muffled giggles, talking obnoxiously in the back of the room. He's annoying as all Hell, all baggy sweatpants and dirty Jordans and you really shouldn't be hanging out around him or his friends, but God, does he reek of personality and magnetism.
It's only because he's fucking gorgeous, you say, and press him up against a wall, hips flush against each other and mouth pressed firmly to his throat, his knees nearly buckling under the touch. He's moaning, guttural and needy, primal into the open air, nails digging at your sides, running thin red stripes across your ribcage, and you have to bite back a hiss, but you manage to stay quiet and only press him further against the wall, jerkily slamming him further into the plaster with a resounding thump. He moans again, high and needy, and you feel your throat catch. He's ready, open and willing, wanting each and every part of you and you alone, and you'll be damned if you don't take this obnoxious loser within the next five minutes.
Hastily, you manage to shove him to the side and only get him to stumble a few steps before you roughly grab his hips, bucking against his pelvis and forcing him back against the wall, pinned and helpless, and God, do you want him. "Fuck," he mutters, though his eyes slip close and he spreads his legs slightly, inviting, welcoming, begging you to do something, anything.
"Shut the fuck up," you hear yourself say, though not at all from your own mouth, and surprise yourself with the ferocity of your unabashed anger, the firm, uncaring hatred leaking from your tone. But it felt right somehow, in a way that, even if you backed out now, you knew your chest would ache, empty and starving for months, perhaps years, reminding you on your deathbed just how readily he was for you to ravish him sadistically, inhumanely. At your words, he only lets out a shuddery, breathy exhale, Adam's apple visibly bobbing as his throat arches at your touch. You get a feel for his neck, thumbing the nape and just barely combing through the ends of his hair with your index finger, toying with the strands as you pressed harsher, bruising kisses to his neck, sloppy and uncoordinated and not at all filled with love. You didn't love him.
You didn't love him.
"You're a slut," you breathe against his chest as you ram into his ass, the drowning sound of skin against skin, rhythmic with the throbbing of your heart and your cock, and he only whimpers at the words, nodding and grinding against the open air for some sort of relief, but you have his arms over his head, held up with your own unrelenting grasp. He can't move — he's vulnerable, up for your bidding, pliant and listening to each word that dripped from your mouth and pooled against his skin, hot and venomous and chaotic.
So you stop.
You stop because he wants this, but you don't want him to, you don't want him to have the satisfaction of getting off, of blowing another load with another guy on another night. You want to see him stutter and jerk around the cock still buried deep in his ass, twitching and spasming until he starts to needily bob up and down, trying to edge himself just that much closer to relief. Grabbing his hip, you firmly lock him in place, keeping him from moving even one inch while you stay still.
The air is heavy and dense with musk and hatred and seething aggravation, but you found you enjoy the way it drowns you, the way it makes his breath evaporate as he begins to thrash, trying to pull away and cursing outwardly, "Fuck you, keep moving, shit, I w-was so close, just keep — fuck, man. Keep going, s-shit."
You pull out, cock hanging between your legs from where you had kneeled on the locker room's tile floor, and he groans out loud, trying to free a hand to finish himself off, but you don't let him, holding him there, watching as he curses and thrashes and helplessly whines, begging, pleading for something, anything, any type of friction and movement to get him off. You hold him there, watching him, watching the way his nostrils flared and his skin flushed red and his eyes met yours, piercing and hateful, and he barks a curse, "Fuck you! God damn fag!" And it fills something in you, gives you that sadistically charming feeling of satisfaction and content, and watch as the arousal ebbs and flows from his eyes until it's nothing but absolute, unadulterated rage, and that's when you let go, prepared for him to swing, to strike you, to jerk himself off and cum messily on the floor.
He throws a punch, following it with a kick directly to the stomach, but you know he's ruined, filthy with your malice and loathing, and he knows that somehow, someway, this will get out, and he'll be ruined, shattered and kicked to the curb like a sickly runt from a litter.
You hate him.
