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Walker has never gone down without a fight, that is a fact. Rip can see it, the fire lighting up his dark eyes, the way his fists clench in fury and his jaw tightens,the younger man has this proverbial anger coursing through his veins and it keeps him alive.
But still, behind the hostility and those bared teeth, there is a softness—a softness that drives Rip Wheeler insane, makes him livid, leaves him swearing in this kind of pure, unfiltered rage he hasn’t felt in a long fucking time. It is there right now, the softness, behind the tears and those stupidly long lashes that can’t help but flutter against high cheekbones as the owner, honest to god, wails.
And Rip just keeps going, keeps sinking himself in that tight heat again, and again, and again, while the body beneath him trembles and struggles and arches up to meet him in each and every thrust.
“Look at me, birdie,” his voice sounds rough, demanding, pleading. Walker has turned his head to the right, trying to hide his pretty face from him, to sink into the soft pillow and let it swallow his moans, and whimpers, and tears, and everything that the heavens would be too ashamed to even acknowledge. “Come on little bird,” the older man punctuates the sentence with a particularly mean thrust, a moan that sounds more like a growl, “come on, let me see how pretty you look taking my cock.”
Walker does look at him at that, pupils fully blown—eyes darker and deeper than ever, those fat tears finally rolling down his cheeks and leaving a mess behind; but then he is surging up, fast like a snake and wrapping his arms around the other’s neck, pulling him close, pulling him down, down, down until their lips crash in something that feels more like a fight than a kiss.
A punch on the jaw when their tongues finally meet, the clash of their teeth nothing more than bruised knuckles on bruised ribs, and then Rip lifting him off the ground—holding him up, up, up like he weights nothing more than the air in his lung when a sharp canine finally cuts his lip. It all feels the same, it all tastes like blood and makes him whimper and moan.
“That’s it, birdie,” he rasps again, this time right against Walker’s ear, and has the pleasure to feel that full body shiver that wrecks the younger man, smiles right against his skin because he is finally falling apart, finally letting that softness spread all over.
It should be disgusting, the stench of the weakness inside Walker, the way he opens up so eagerly, heat so tight and wet, thighs locked around his hips, fingernails scratching his nape and back… But he’ll be damned—it isn’t, it is intoxicating, makes him angry, makes his pace punishing and hungry.
“Please, Rip, please, god” and his little bird sings so prettily, voice wet with tears, unsteady with pleasure, strained with weakness.
“I know you can come like this, birdie,” he says, careful not to let his own voice break, licking a path up Walker’s neck, tasting the sweat and the tears, the softness, “nothing more than my dick in your hole, fucking you raw.”
In the end that’s all it takes, dirty words and an even dirtier grind that has Walker arching off the bed in a wail, coming hard and crying out when Rip keeps fucking him through his orgasm like a wrathful god, punching the most pathetic little whimpers out of him with every thrust and every kiss, with every bite until the darkness finally claims him.
Walker wakes up the next morning to a cold bed and an even colder room, as he finds his way out of the house he can’t help the softness that overtakes him, the ache inside his chest when he opens the door to a beautiful day.
And he keeps falling.