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It shall be known, noted, and acknowledged by whatever higher power whosoever it be that Ornstein is not a patient man, nor does he suffer contention gracefully. Working the late-night shift at a bar—three in the morning until noon—though the front door to the place is down a flight of stairs and shadowed by the hulking structure of the rest of the building it’s in, meant that his proclivity towards order and specifics is not largely accepted by his clientele. His coworkers, on the other hand, appreciate the way he can very easily and very forcefully throw out any customer who is becoming a rowdy type of drunk. A benefit to having a short temper and having enough strength in his body to haul even the most unwilling out the door and onto their asses.
He prefers this task be his, knowing that the other two night-shifters with him more likely to pull their switchblades out of their pockets than deal with it civilly. Vick, the type to aim for the eye; Ciaran, the type to aim for the throat. Both of which are bad for business—sometimes Ornstein wonders why either of them had taken retail jobs, but he never asks. It’s not his business. Ciaran being their one sole maker of actually good drinks meant she had cemented her place the moment she walked in.
Vick is trickier, with sharp edges that refuse to be filed down, but he gets along with everyone working at the bar just fine, along with being the only one amongst them to look at any mess face on and unblinking. The man has balls of steel and a gag reflex to challenge the gods, or so Ciaran liked to joke whenever the first shift left them a particularly nasty scene.
Their day, at ten in the morning, is winding down. With the calendar proudly showing that Monday has finally arrived, the end of Ornstein’s week has arrived, but it is not at the forefront of his mind.
At the corner of the room, tucked into one of their few booths, Smough is waiting. He arrived four hours ago and parked, absently scanning through a newspaper that must have been left behind as a poor-quality coaster. He is still scanning through that newspaper, looking up every so often as someone approaches the bar and stares until they leave. Ornstein is watching him, as he absently polishes a glass. Vick is away cleaning some mess left in the bathroom, but Ciaran is by him, wiping a small mess of peanut scraps from the bar onto the floor.
Ciaran notices his line of attention, sees Smough as well. She huffs a breath.
“Dump him,” she says.
“That’s your solution to everything.”
“And I’m right. Have you talked to him?” It’s advice that she reiterates often, in that order, nearly every night when she notices him there. It’s not without its humor, though not, also, without its animosity.
Smough, as it is, is not a small man. Often he’s taller than everyone in the room, with a bulky and strong body that can throw Ornstein around like a sack of potatoes, if he so chooses. This they found out in the second year of their relationship and have used to great effect since. Besides, who could really blame Ornstein for wanting to be manhandled once or twice?
“Not yet,” he says and expects Ciaran’s withering gaze before it comes, so he’s prepared for it. “I will talk to him.”
It’s a habit that Smough has taken on in the last month, to arrive at some point during Ornstein’s shift. Sometimes, it felt like he was really not giving a shit about his own sleep schedule or health, but today, he seems fit, hearty, and awake.
His eyes flash up to the bar. There is a low and greedy light in them that Ornstein is deeply familiar with. Smough is by no means the model of a perfect man, but Ornstein doesn’t mind. He is under no delusions about Smough, having known precisely the type of man he was when he married him. He has listened to every one of Smough’s midnight ramblings about whatever fucked-up thing is rattling around in his head, but there are a few key things he knows about Smough. He knows that Smough wants him, wants to live their lives together and would be happy doing so. He knows that Smough chose him. He knows that he chose Smough right back, even though he is the type of man that people would tell you to run from.
He faces the light in Smough’s eyes, and a part of him knows what sordid thoughts are buzzing their way through his husband’s skull.
Ciaran looks between Ornstein and Smough and sighs.
“Well, get him out of here. Vick and I can close up.”
Ornstein looks at her, a tad surprised. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I hate looking at him, and I know he’s not leaving until you do.”
He rolls his eyes, before shooting her a grateful smile. It would be stupid not to take her up, and he knows that he will simply lie about his hours later. So, he takes off his apron and folds it up, going into the back.
“You’re an angel,” he says to her as he leaves. His back is struck by the hemmed edge of a towel.
“Shut the fuck up,” she says, spooling it back up around her hand, looking away from him. “Go home.”
Smough follows him out, and Ornstein waits for him, standing under the light of the sun. Its rays are radiating, beating with a steady precision against the back of his neck and his shoulders. The pavement under his feet feels almost like a microwave. Smough, when he joins him, stands to his side, makes no attempt to shield him from the heat.
“Would I be correct,” Ornstein says, “to call you a fucking idiot?”
He frowns. “Not sure what you’re getting at.” His face quickly shifts into a grin, pursed lips as he leans down into Ornstein’s space. “Can’t I visit my lovely beau at work?”
“Every day? I’m concerned about you.” Ornstein reaches up, scratching blunt nails through Smough’s beard. It’s been a while since the last time he cut it, the dark whiskers thick, beginning an early grey near the center. His hair is much the same, getting a little long, greying at his temples.
“Don’t tell me you’re too busy staring at my handsome visage to focus. You’ll embarrass me, sweetheart.”
Ornstein rolls his eyes, turns away from him. His eyes find Smough’s car in the parking lot, the thick rubber wheels of the truck with its boring white exterior. It shines like a beacon, alone in the nearly empty back lot where Vick and Ciaran are parked as well. It isn’t exactly employee parking, but it’s the best they get. He goes to the car, and Smough unlocks diligently. It’s a force of habit, and when said habits benefit Ornstein, he can’t help but love them.
The two get in; for a moment, it is quiet. For once, Smough doesn’t turn the radio on, just kicks on the engine, pulls them onto the busy road out of the old town portion of the city—where the bar is located—and toward home.
Ornstein doesn’t waste time before turning to him. “No deflecting. I want to talk about this.”
Smough sighs, and a tight look passes across his face. His thumb swipes against the leather of the wheel. The car’s pace is steady among the flock. It’s an odd amount of traffic for ten in the morning, but who could dictate the schedules of the many?
“It bother you so much?” Smough asks, though Ornstein notes the distinct lack of curiosity in his voice. Instead, it sounds more like he’s holding back, tight and strained. He isn’t sure if Smough would accept an answer to the question. He recognizes a defensive state in the other by now and knows he’s starting to shift into one. Ornstein would like to avoid that if he can.
“I want to know,” he begins. “What do you get out of it? You’re going to bed at eleven and then waking up at one in order to come to the bar. So, tell me why.”
Outside the car, the straight and tightly packed buildings of the old town shift into the oughts’ vision of modern architecture as they enter the city center. The chunky brick giving way to sleek white walls and large windows. It is consuming, imposing. Smough drives them under the freeway.
“You know motivation is hard to answer.”
“And I’ll accept any answer you give me, so long as you have one.” Ornstein is watching Smough’s face for those subtle shifts of feeling. One breaks through: the unexpected resignation.
“I’m not a good person,” Smough says. “And because I’m not a good person, I think about you finding someone better than me, and I want to be there to stop it.”
They’re still driving in the shadowed under hangs of the freeway. Ornstein can see older parts of the city emerging from the shadows, knows they’re nearing the train tracks that run through town. He looks out, sees the river, sees an empty parking lot nearby. He has a thought, even as he stifles an oncoming laugh.
“Pull over,” he says.
Smough does as he asks, bringing the car to a slow, crawling halt in the parking lot. They’re overlooking the river even here. The sounds of traffic above them overpower the rhythm of the rushing tide.
Ornstein unbuckles his seatbelt. “Park.” He still doesn’t look at Smough, feeling in the air the waves of nerves that seem to be erupting from the other man.
Smough has never been intuitive, but he is familiar with the certain switches that can be pulled in Ornstein. As much as Ornstein knows about his husband’s character, Smough knows just the same. Knows about Ornstein’s orderly nature and will to take charge when whatever semblance of order he has internally decided upon is not being met. Knows the tone of voice that meant it is time for Ornstein to be taking control of any given situation. And as much as Ornstein enjoys Smough’s size, the might of his musculature and the easy way he can slip into ferocity, Smough too openly enjoys the posturing and controlling side of his husband.
As Smough’s gaze turns to him now, taking in the face-forward and straight-back version of him in the passenger seat, Ornstein notices the growing aura of stress relax, pull back. Smough’s shoulders lower. Visibly relaxing as he does what he’s told.
Ornstein unbuckles Smough’s seatbelt and reaches down to the crank below the seat, pushing it back. “Move back,” he says. His voice maintains a solid and unyielding tone. No room to argue, not that Smough would.
Contrary to what their friends may believe, Smough is very obedient when Ornstein is the one directing him. And in his obedience, he moves his seat back, as far as it can go, separating himself from the wheel. As an aside, he also leans his seat back, at a low, obtuse angle. He is more than expecting Ornstein when he comes, slipping over the console between them and straddling his lap, knees crammed into the plastic of the car, even as he grabs Smough’s face, makes him look at him. Unable to turn away.
Smough’s own hands come to rest on his hips. He is relaxed, though probably uncomfortable, but no more so than Ornstein is. Ornstein being not a small man himself, and Smough having an entire foot on him. But they’ve worked in smaller places, and the inside of Smough’s truck was a little wider than one might expect.
Ornstein bends down, bringing their foreheads together, even as he’s strategically placing his hips to hover over the growing press of Smough’s cock in his jeans.
“You’re so stupid,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper. A little prayer just between the two of them. “What do you think I’m going to find?”
“Something stupid,” Smough agrees. “Some hot dude. Some volunteer for some charity.” He’s hesitant before he speaks. “Some guy who’s not an asshole and doesn’t drink as much as I do. Probably knows his own strength too. Doesn’t hurt you when you fuck.”
“Truly, truly stupid,” Ornstein says again. He looks into Smough’s eyes, holds his gaze. He runs one of his hands down Smough’s cheek, grabs his chin and turns his face up towards the roof of the cab. He leans over him. “I’ve met so many guys like that. I met guys like that before I met you. Do you really think any of that bothers me?”
“Yeah.”
Ornstein leans down, presses his mouth to the edge of Smough’s beard, where it’s starting to grow back at the top of his throat. “We’ve been married for five years,” he tells him. Smough knows this, but Ornstein reminds him anyway. “I could’ve married some hot, nice, scrawny volunteer type, but I didn’t. I married you.” He kisses his neck again. “I chose you. In the end, I chose you. What’s the problem here?”
Smough doesn’t answer. His fingers grip tight to the bone on Ornstein’s hips, pulling him down to rest better on his lap.
“I never thought you’d feel insecure,” Ornstein continues. “You? What changed?”
“Didn’t sleep for two days straight a couple months ago, and then I started eating it. Started thinking about myself, and about you.” The honesty is startling. Smough never talks like this. “Started thinking you’re too good for me, deserve better.”
“So, you follow me to work?”
“I can’t let you find someone else.”
Ornstein rolls his eyes. “If someone starts flirting with me at work, I’m throwing them out on their ass, and you know that.”
Smough’s fingers start rubbing small circles into his skin, lifting under his shirt, dancing just under his ribs. “Too much logic. I’ve been losing sleep over this.”
“You did that to yourself,” he says. He shifts over Smough as well as he can in the car. “Should I dedicate more time to you? Be more loving?”
Smough huffs a laugh.
“I’m not joking.” Ornstein leans down again, releasing Smough’s face as he presses his mouth to his brow, the bridge of his nose, finally, to his chin. “There’s a lot I like about you, you know.”
“Spare me.”
“No, I’m telling you.” He lets his hands fall to Smough’s chest as he sits back up again, feeling the soft bend of his pecs under the skin. He knows that all of his movement, basically rubbing himself against Smough’s dick, must relay his intent enough. He can feel it under him, starting to harden up.
“I think you’re plenty hot,” he says, ignoring that Smough closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, even as Ornstein starts to pull up his shirt. Smough, so obedient, lets him. He throws it into the back seat. “Just about anyone would die to feel your arms around them. To feel your beard, run their fingers through your hair. I would, at least. Every single day, I get to look at you. Fuck, even if you’re just cracking open a beer over the kitchen sink in some old t-shirt, it’s the sexiest thing I’ll see all day.”
He kisses Smough’s collarbone, runs his hands down his ribs. He rolls his hips, and Smough grunts, playing cool. But Ornstein can feel the tightening of his grip on his waist and knows he’s getting the intended effect.
“You’re confident in yourself. You don’t care how you look in public. Only reason I can fucking think of that you come to my shift. Sometimes I see you in that corner booth, and I think about pulling you into the backroom. Just to say hello.”
“Menace,” Smough answers.
“You’re a fucking genius at cooking. You yell at our neighbors when they’re being loud or leaving shit in our yard. You don’t suffer bullshit, and I appreciate that.”
Smough bucks up, and Ornstein can immediately feel how riled up he’s gotten.
“Aw,” he teases. “Do you like it when I’m nice to you?”
“Fuck off.”
“Because I like it when you’re mean to me. And I like it when you throw me around or when you do whatever you want. You may be thinking you’re sorry for leaving your little marks and bruises, but they’re the highlight of my fucking day. Do you really think I’d just let you do that if I didn’t like it?”
Smough laughs at this. “You’ve got a point.”
“Body and soul, babe,” Ornstein says, sitting back again, dragging his hips over Smough’s, and seeing again that tightening look on his face. “I want to fuck you.”
“Fuck, by all means, go ahead.” The enthusiastic hands under his shirt climb up his side, to his front. Smough’s touch on his bare skin is lightning.
“You’re staying right there.”
“Yes, sir.”
It’s clear from Smough’s tone that he meant it in jest—the slight laugh trickling through those two lonely words. But it is exactly what Ornstein wants to hear. Good god, did he love it when his husband called him sir.
He pulls his shirt off, throws it into the back with Smough’s, and slides his hips over his again, pressing down so he can feel Smough’s cock under him, eliciting a groan that sounds caught in his throat. Those noises that Smough makes are like fire burning under his feet. It’s that adrenaline-fueled rush that rocks from the bottom of his stomach up his spine. At the thought he could be the cause of it. The sounds Smough makes when Ornstein is getting him off is an earthquake to his reasoning mind.
He reaches down, hands greedy, and slips the belt off his jeans, tears at their buckle and their zipper and pulls at them, lifting himself only so he’s able to pull them partway down Smough’s thigh, so that he is only covered by the fabric of his boxers. Ornstein sees the button straining, battling against the push of his mostly erect cock, and he shows it mercy, pulling Smough’s boxers down as well.
As he works on his own pants, he can feel Smough’s hands moving, as if framing his body. Fondling the shallow tuck of his waist, leaving gentle scratches on the lower bars of his ribcage. Ornstein knows Smough’s fondness for his waist, so he doesn’t stop him. He pulls his own pants and boxers down in one movement. Slipping out of them is awkward, but he manages it, leaving them in a puddle on the floor under the seat. He lowers again, bringing his hips down to rest in his husband’s lap again before leaning forward, kissing Smough on the cheek, then the mouth.
It’s slow. A solid meet and break and twist. The diving of tongues as he licks into Smough’s mouth. Smough is grabbing at his legs, pulling him closer as if it would somehow expediate the fuck. He pulls back from the kiss, takes Smough’s chin into two of his fingers and looks into his eyes. His pupils blown wide, irises a mere ring of brown around them.
“I’ll get myself ready then,” Ornstein teases with a slight grin, pulling back, sitting again now. He hovers slightly as he reaches down, fishing into Smough’s pocket. He generally relies on his husband to carry lubricant, just in case. It’s come in handy a few times in the past, sometimes even non-sexually.
He finds what he’s looking for, though it’s a small tube that he knows they’ve used recently, but he squeezes it liberally onto his hands, his fingers, before reaching behind himself and pressing one inside. His free hand finds its purpose, pumping at his own cock now as he starts stretching himself. Smough’s hands slide down him, come to his ass.
“I didn’t say you could help,” he scolds and earns a sharp look. “Look, but practice restraint for once, would you?”
There’s a curse in Smough’s gaze when their eyes meet once more, but his hands release him. He holds them out like he’s proving he’s innocent.
“Yes, sir. Sure thing, sir. But you can’t stop me from touching you when I’m in you.”
Ornstein rolls his eyes, working a second finger inside. He closes his eyes, feeling the waves that come with stroking himself. The slickness of the lube, the languid movement of his hand, it’s reminiscent of an early morning, a day he’s free, when he’s still a bit asleep but horny out of his mind. Smough’s kind on those mornings and will fuck him into the bed without much asking.
Thinking about the veracity of his hips, the way he’ll just mount him, face down, on the bed. Mount him and thrust without caring about the bed frame, without mind that the headboard is slamming into their wall. Why would he mind when they both love it so much? It’s a thought process that he’s clinging to, now. He knows Smough is watching him, as he pushes another finger into himself, as he’s massaging himself open to take him, as he’s stroking himself. If Smough thinks he’s thinking about anyone else while he does this, well, at this point, that would be Smough’s problem. But Ornstein finds himself willing to convince him otherwise whenever he so pleases.
He thinks about Smough’s iron grip, the way he presses his mouth and tongue to Ornstein’s body—mouth like he’s something holy, tongue like he’s something profane. He thinks about wrapping his legs around Smough’s hips and taking him while on his back, feeling him buck up into him. The way Smough likes to slip out far before ramming back in, rough and enough to leave him gasping at it.
With these thoughts rattling around his head, he doesn’t last long before he’s coming onto Smough’s chest. He knows there’s wet wipes in the console, but there’s still a satisfaction to the thought of it drying there, leaving its own little mark. Before he’s decided that enough is enough, he’s prepared. His body familiar enough with Smough’s cock that a fourth digit probably wouldn’t have made much difference.
He takes Smough’s cock in his hand, rubbing over it with the lubricant and drops onto it. Immediately, he hears Smough’s breath, like a choked sigh of relief as he finally puts him out of his misery. He sinks down fully, steadying himself with a hand on Smough’s chest.
Smough, in his own stead, makes good on his promise, immediately grabbing Ornstein’s hips. As if he had been restraining himself every moment until now.
“You’re not guiding me,” Ornstein says. His voice a little breathy. “I’ll take no input from you, thanks.”
“Like you haven’t already,” Smough says, and it’s a bad joke, but Ornstein laughs anyway.
And he moves, raising himself up and lowering again, copying the same languid pace he’d jerked himself off to, challenging Smough’s regular more punishing speed. It’s something of his own revenge; for Smough’s doubts, for his insecurities, if Ornstein would fuck him slowly and make him remember how tightly the two of them have intertwined themselves into the other. He fucks himself with as steady a pace as he can manage, riled up as he is, tired as he is. He rolls his hips and feels the length and girth of Smough’s cock drag inside him. His blood flows like lava; Smough’s hands clench him but do not obstruct his pace.
Smough has no comments on his speed. Ornstein studies his face: the way his mouth has dropped open, the way he’s breathing out of it, his nostril flaring every now and then like it’s imperative to his breath. He’s clenched his eyes shut, focusing on the breath like it will keep him from coming now that he’s inside Ornstein. In a show of defiance, riding on the high of every one of Smough’s cocky sirs, Ornstein leans forward, still moving his hips to the time of the rhythm in his head. To the languid beat of an improvised song. He cups Smough’s face in his hands and pulls him close, sitting him up, bringing him in to taste his mouth again, as he’s raising, lowering. Smough kisses him.
This kiss, unlike the first, is hard, breathy. It is every fuck they’ve had and every ounce of submission Smough is oozing. His husband kisses him with tongue and teeth, and it feels like being taken apart, and he finds it no longer worthwhile to seek his revenge.
He breaks the kiss, drops himself like he’s on their bed, like he’s grasping for his purchase on their headboard. Smough groans at him, and his hands move to his thighs, as if now, Smough is the one needing to find some grounding, something to hold onto. Like Ornstein is giving him the best of his life.
Ornstein gasps for breath, finding the cab of the truck growing more stifling with every roll of his hips. His thighs will ache tomorrow, he knows, but he continues. He fucks himself hard enough to make the cab shake, to hear the squeaking of the suspension.
It becomes a desperate need, a desperate want, a mouth open, uninhibited desire to fuck and be fuck like he’s some kind of animal. The way Smough is grabbing him now, his hands wandering from his thighs, to his hips, to his waist. Not pulling him down onto his cock, not dragging him up from it, but resting there, gripping his skin that those dark rock reminders of this moment will stay for the next few days.
That’s a delight to ponder. That Smough may see them and remember, too. It did not hurt, he wants to press, to reassure, and everyday I look at them and I think about how fucking lucky I am to have you. Smough, who challenges him and reassures him, and who would never put him on a pedestal or rely solely on him.
If he could come again, he would, and he knows Smough is almost there.
He sits up, using the back of the passenger seat to support him as he does, and he looks at Smough, sees his now open eyes.
“You’re such a motherfucker,” he says with a smile. “And I fucking love you.”
This is not news to Smough, but he says it all the same. Revenge and reassurance.
He runs one hand through Smough’s hair, pulls on it slightly, brings him up toward him.
“If you’re waiting for me to tell you to come, now’s the time.” It’s cocky, but it makes Smough smile, makes him rumble out a laugh even as Ornstein releases him, and he drops back onto the seat.
“You’re a bitch,” Smough answers, but he holds him tightly and begins to buck his hips. Ornstein lets him, riding the motions in response. His grip tightens on the back of the passenger seat while he feels Smough come, hot and flowing, inside of him.
Without a word, Ornstein reaches for the console and grabs the wet wipes, offering one to Smough, who looks at it with a narrow sneer.
“No goddamn afterglow with you?”
“You know this,” Ornstein answers. “Clean up, I want to go home and take a shower.”
Ever obedient, Smough obliges.