seeing red

by ratbag (ao3)

When Hunter finally gets you outside, you smell like sweat and sugary, sticky drinks. Like arousal. Like other men...

The dull throb of his migraine melts into the baseline creeping through the wall, into the mismatched thump-thump of his heartbeat and yours as he backs you into the duracrete. His hands shake in time with it as he palms at your sides and stares.

You dressed up tonight. All skintight red latex, cut in a way that exposes your midriff, lets him touch you skin-on-skin, the pads of his fingers mapping your torso like he can overwrite the other hands that have been all over you. It's the kind of outfit that's meant to get attention, and you've gotten plenty. Enough that you were riled up and wanting before he'd fumbled his way into your orbit again.

You'd called it a pleasant surprise when he'd pressed himself into you, chest to your back, but he wouldn't put it past you to do it on purpose. To plant yourself precisely where he could see you; bait on a hook he can't stop fucking biting. Even if it does leave blood in his mouth.

The first time was a mistake, the second too. The third was habit-forming and every time since has just eased your claws in deeper. There's no commitment, only compulsion; only the hot, slick grip of your body and the way you tempt him into it.

He could cut through the gaudy latex of your getup with how sharp his eyes are, lingering on the tease of the zipper that cuts down the length of your sternum, mirrored over the soft mound of your cunt. He's already intimately familiar with what's underneath. Despite his best attempts at restraint.

He knows he's pushing the limits of your patience with how you tug at his belt, drawing him in, head angled like you're seeking a kiss he doesn't give you.

"You seem on-edge." You say dryly, letting him paw at your hips as he pushes closer, thigh sliding between yours, easy as a hot knife through butter.

"Don't ruin this." Hunter mutters, agitated, leaning in to bite at your jaw, dragging the sensitive skin between his teeth in a way that's meant to hurt.

He's been sullen in recent weeks. Moreso than usual. Even moreso when he'd seen you across the bar at 79's: a bright red beacon in the sea of white plastoid; wrapped in bloody latex that clings to you like a warning. Like the slick skin of some poisonous jungle frog.

And you are poison. How you've crept into him, hot in his veins.

Hunter is not built for wanting. Everything about him is meant for duty. Artificially engineered, designed for it. Right down to the concentration of his olfactory nerve clusters; the sensitivity of his arrector pili muscles; the capacity of his vestibulocochlear nerve. He is the product of decades of investment (credits, resources, ingenuity), of Nala Se's pigheaded determination. He's meant to be better than the regs he'd watched you toy with. The one pressed flush to your back, his fingers skimming your hips, your waist, your... He'd turned his face back to the bartop, jaw set tight.

He prides himself on his self-control, but you make him feel like a slave to his fucking impulses. Like he'd crawl on his belly over broken glass just to taste the sweat he could see glistening on your jaw.

And he hates you for it.

He hates 79's, too. He hates anywhere with too-loud music and too-bright lights and too many bodies crammed together in a too-small space... He can't tell the difference between the neon glare of the dance floor or the flickerings of a migraine, all bright pulsing flashes that make his temples throb.

He's only here for Wrecker's sake, because the big lug was sulking, because they never have any fun, Sarge, c'mon!

And there you were.

And now you're here.

The alley behind 79's stinks of piss and chemicals, like the condensation leaking from the pipes overhead and the hot, sweet musk of your arousal. He mouths at your throat, spit glistening on your skin in the dim neon lights, covering you in him.

"Fuck, you smell like me now..." He murmurs, face pressed to your neck, breathing hard.

"Feeling possessive?" Your coyness digs like needles under his skin.

"Always." It's too much, too raw; you seem too drunk to care. Too needy, at least. As desperate for him as he is for you, the same horrid, clawing thing in your gut.

You palm him through his civvies, and he buries his head in your shoulder and bites when you squeeze. Your gasp is swallowed by his, by the bass thudding heavy through the duracrete wall.

"Touch me." He demands, and you comply.

He loves your hands. Clever and violent as his own, painted as red as your stupid latex outfit by the exit sign flickering overhead.

He kisses you, finally, teasing you with his mouth; barely-there brushes that make you tense with irritation, before drawing you in deep. He moans at the taste of your tongue, or maybe it's just how you're cupping his dick, grinding your palm up and down him as he presses you back harder into the grimy wall.

"Shit..." He squeezes his eyes shut, nuzzling into your neck again, breathing in deep. "Take it out..."

He's grateful for the easy fastenings on his civvies. No magnetic clasps or suction seals keeping him from your touch; just the maddeningly slow drag of his zipper. Like you're fucking revelling in his impatience.

Hunter loves how you breathe when you feel him, that shaky little exhale, and how your pulse picks up under his tongue... You pump him slow and steady, no preamble, just pleasure, because you both know he's wound too tight for teasing now.

He moans into your neck as you stroke him, mouthing at the curve of it and savouring the taste of your sweat; how it deepens with the arousal he can smell pooling between your thighs...

"Fuck, I can taste how much you want it..." He bites at your shoulder again, grinding into your touch. Precum slicks your fingers, but it's not enough, so he ducks his head and spits on it.

It gleams bloody in the alley's red neon glow, violent as his want when he throbs at the sight of himself all over your skin; something territorial, like you'd teased him...

You stroke him faster now, one hand on his cock and the other fisted at the nape of his neck as he sucks tender bruises into yours, your shoulder, the hollow behind your ear... And bites down harder when the slick friction turns too much.

It's been too long since the last time, since the last stolen, fumbling moment between you and his body has missed it in a way his mouth will never admit. Especially not when it's busy against your skin, hips grinding shakily into the circle of your fist as he grunts and cums all over the red latex covering your crotch.

It's obscene, and his jaw goes slack watching the pulses of it drip over the plush curve of your mound, cupped perfectly by the skintight stretch of fabric. He stays like that in the aftermath, forehead against your collarbone, curled in on himself and panting like a kicked dog as his eyes follow the slow crawl of his release down your zipper, into the soft crease between your thighs that cradles your clit... He wants to rub it into you, smear it all over the shiny red latex, make you squirm against the heady press of his fingers...

"I like this outfit, you know." You say dryly, interrupting the sick turn of his thoughts.

"It'll wipe off."

"It better."

"Mm." He's not listening, but he figures you don't care with how your breath hitches when his knuckles drag over the mess he's made, digging against your cunt; giving you the broad, flat friction that always makes your toes curl.

You curse as he rubs at you, a low, breathless stream of words that melt into the mess of noise from the bar and the walkway barely five paces from where he's pressing you into the wall, palming desperately at your pussy. His fingers curl up between your thighs, straining the gaudy latex so he can drag them over the swell of your cunt, smearing it with his cum and feeling the heat of you swell under his touch. The heel of his hand grinds into your clit, satisfaction stretched across the line of his mouth when he feels you start to shake.

"Good?" Because he likes it when you stroke his ego almost as much as when you stroke his...

"Fuck, shut up..." You groan, and he tugs down your zipper in recompense, sliding his dirtied hand past the seam of it so he can touch you, skin-to-slick-skin. You're so wet for him, because of him, and even if they weren't soaked with his own cum his fingers would slide in so easy; two pushing deep as he presses his mouth to your jaw and feels the soft rumble of your moan.

He eases his fingers out just enough to rub your shared mess over your cunt, soft curls dragging against the heel of his hand as he smears it all over you, up to your clit; so swollen that your pulse beats against the pad of his thumb when he presses down and you whine. The sound goes straight to his head, settles in his teeth, and he bites at your throat to ease the buzz of it. The way it fizzes like champagne in his gut; acidic, dizzying...

He keeps up that blunt, demanding pressure with his thumb as his fingers fuck back into you, his cum and your need keeping the glide of them slick and easy, even when you start to squeeze around them, the desperate flutter of your insides tugging him deeper. He loves how your body responds to him, giving him the proof of pleasure that your mouth won't. Pettiness or pride, he doesn't know why you hold it back from him, but he doesn't care when he can feel you start to pulse around his fingers.

Hunter presses his lips to the shell of your ear, nosing against your hairline and inhaling the salt-slick scent of your skin. It always sharpens just before you cum, like ozone in the air before a rainburst. He craves the taste of it as much as he craves the hot, slick clench of your cunt; tongue dragging over the perspiration beading on your temple as he crooks his fingers in time to the waves of bliss rolling through your insides like a thunderclap.

Your nails dig into the nape of his neck when you cum, pressing half-moon indents into the flesh as he presses heavy, messy kisses against yours, trailing down your cheek, jaw, throat, to settle over the hummingbird beat of your pulse. Your breathing shudders under his tongue as he traces the line of it, tasting you the way he wishes he could drop to his knees and do between your shiny, shaking thighs, where your pleasure and his melts together on your skin.

But there's not enough time. There's never enough time. He's already been gone long enough for his brothers to miss him, but...

His other hand releases its death-grip on your side, grabbing at your jaw and pulling you in to swallow the noise that punches its way past your teeth as he pushes you into oversensitivity; thumb grinding desperately against your throbbing clit as he forces you into another, mind-numbing orgasm. The kind that soaks his hand and makes your thighs twitch, boots scuffing against the dirty floor as you struggle to stay upright; the press of his leg between yours the only thing keeping you in place as you pant into his mouth.

Hunter parts his lips a little wider, tongue sticking out expectantly, blown-dark eyes almost pleading.

You know what he's asking for.

He watches intently as you gather saliva in your mouth, and let it drip into his.

You're always so sweet after you've cum, and he swallows it like ambrosia before kissing you again; deep and dirtier, licking into your mouth, over your teeth, tasting everything he can...

Your fingers skim the edge of his tattoo, following the dark ink down his cheek to his jaw, pressing into the hinge and forcing his mouth open wider so you can—

The commlink at his wrist beeps, shattering the moment, and he slumps forward against your shoulder with a deep, heavy groan as he eases his fingers out of you; the sound so slick and obscene it makes his spent cock ache.

"Disgusting." You deadpan as you watch him suck them clean, and he shrugs it off because you don't protest when he kisses you again. All tongue and teeth, not even close to an apology.

"Gotta take this." He mutters, tucking himself back into his civvies as you bite at his lower lip in (soft) spiteful retaliation.

"I won't wait up." You tell him, and he knows, but it still stings. Like the little reddened groove from your teeth.

"I won't be around to wait up for."

"You never are."

And shit, maybe it stings for you too. He tries to smooth it over with another kiss, one last time, hard and dirty and—

You grab at his hair, pulling, and he breaks it with a stuttered groan.

"You're not playing fair." He gripes, pupils almost swallowing the deep brown of his eyes.

"I'm not trying to." You shrug, but you let go. And it feels just as spiteful as your bite.

He tongues at his lower lip, feeling the little graze from your teeth as he forces himself back out of your orbit, far enough away that he can't feel the heat of your skin, the gravitational pull of temptation, his restraint stretched like light at the edge of a black hole...

His comms beep again. Insisting.

"Same time next week?" You cock your head to the side, trying for flirtatious, but it falls flat. Undercut with irritation he knows you're not trying to swallow.

Especially when he waves it off, dismissive in a way that feels deliberate, is deliberate because he needs to drive that wedge back in between you. For his own sake.

Even if he can still taste you on his tongue with every fucking breath he takes.

"Next month, maybe." Comes his counter, and you scoff as you tug your zipper back into place, pushing off the wall but (mercifully) not into his personal space; hovering just at the edge of it like a taunt.

Beep.

His jaw sets and he raises his commlink to his lips as you push past him, back into the din of 79's, and once again out of his reach