Chapter Text
This is one of his least favourite ways to spend the afternoon, second only to shoveling his own guts back into his stomach with his bare hands.
But there’s no way around it. He needs the money, and this is one of the quickest tried-and-true ways to get it. The oldest profession, he’s heard it called.
The rough wooden wall of the church’s storage closet prickles his bare back when he’s forced up against it. Greedy impatient hands tug at the hem of his ill-fitting pants, held up by a piece of rope.
He realizes he’s still clutching his shirt like an idiot, so he tosses it aside. It’s been a while since he’s had to do this.
The light from the incandescent bulb above them casts the other man’s face into shadow. Cassidy is spared the view of his ugly mug, but he can still make out the wolfish gleam in his eye.
He hopes it will be over quick, if the man is as eager as he looks.
He hates this particular man. But if there’s one thing he’s always been good at, it’s surviving, by whatever means necessary. When the end of the earth finally comes about and there’s nothing but cockroaches for company, he will remain, alone amidst the smoldering ruins of civilization.
Centuries after this fat fuck has a heart attack and someone rolls his ass into a cold hole in the earth to rot, he will remain.
He smirks, unaware he’s doing it until the man notices.
“You like this, don’t you? Fucking faggot.”
It takes every last scrap of his willpower, which is admittedly lacking to begin with, not to point out the hypocrisy of the slur.
The man’s thick fingers dig painfully into his shoulder, holding him in place against the wall. His other hand gropes clumsily between Cassidy’s legs, palming him over the fabric of his baggy pants.
The man leans into him hungrily, breath hot and humid against his neck, and it smells like stale cigarettes. Now he’s even more impatient for this to be over so he can have a cigarette of his own. Never mind that, a whole pack. He can’t wait to smoke several in a row without having to beg each one off of Jesse.
That is the point of this, after all. Cigarettes, a few illicit party favours, and a bottle of whiskey to share with his dear preacher friend. That will fix everything up.
He must be at least a dozen bottles indebted to Jesse by now. Though his friend always claims he doesn't mind, the booze and cigarettes are dispensed with increasingly more frequent eye rolls lately, and he's tired of being a burden. Tired of being broke and pathetic.
This thought hardens his resolve. He can’t let Jesse resent him. He’ll get the good stuff tonight, he decides. Not because either of them are discerning at all, but as a token of friendship. A nice old bottle of something the preacher man is too cheap to buy for himself.
Speaking of which.
“Yer good for it, yeh?” Cassidy asks the man, raising an eyebrow. “I wanna see it first.”
He holds the man at bay, fingers splayed against the thick forest of curls covering his sweaty chest. It’s the furthest thing from Jesse’s smooth tanned well-defined torso. But then, if this man were anything like Jesse, he wouldn’t be demanding payment.
The man grunts impatiently but obliges. He releases Cassidy and takes a step backward to rummage in the pocket of his jeans. He produces a fistful of rolled up bills and rifles through them.
“What’s it again? Fifty?” The man asks scornfully.
He looks Cassidy up and down thoroughly, as if having second thoughts already.
“Depends what ye want,” he shrugs, putting on the most charming face he can muster under the circumstances.
He wants as much of this asshole’s money as he can get off him, and he doesn’t particularly care what he needs to do to get it. It'll all be over soon, and the whiskey will wash it away.
He hopes the man doesn’t cheap out and settle for a handjob. If that happens, he’ll have to find a second. Possibly a third. He chews his lower lip, watching the man and his money intently like a cat watching a mouse.
“Same as last time,” the man huffs finally.
Score.
“Hundred then, it is.”
The man’s upper lip curls.
“For your grimy junky ass? You’re a train wreck. I could get some high class pussy down the road for that,” he scoffs, plucking several twenties out of his roll nonetheless.
Cheap-ass redneck fuck, he seethes inwardly.
He could make a bullshit modern art painting with this guy’s blood, splatter it all over these walls, and sell it for ten times that amount. Jesse wouldn’t approve though. It's bad enough he is about to defile his best friend’s church in a similarly sacrilegious way.
“That ain’t what ye’re lookin’ fer though, is it?” Cassidy purrs in a low voice, letting the man’s insult roll off him.
He sees the man’s jaw working irritably, hesitant to surrender his money.
“’Sides, yer hardly gonna find a high class broad who’ll let ye get away with the kind of shite yer into, that’s one thing I know. I'm acquainted with all the ladies down the road, and none of them would take too kindly to the likes of yeh.”
He stares the man down pointedly.
“Alright, a hundred.”
The man begrudgingly shoves the money into Cassidy’s waiting palm, mouth set in a hard line.
Cassidy thumbs through the bills quickly, double-checking, because he doesn’t trust the bastard one bit, and stoops to tuck them in the pocket of his discarded shirt.
The man doesn’t waste a moment once the deal is sealed. Cassidy finds himself up against the wall again almost immediately the moment he is upright.
A large rough hand closes around his throat. He can hear the man’s pulse quickening, tantalized by the illusion of power he paid for.
“Filthy shameless fucking slut,” the man rasps in his ear, pressing his bulky body up against him.
The man’s hand tightens against his adam’s apple, squeezing experimentally. Cassidy’s hands ball into fists at his sides, fighting back his gut instinct to knock all of the man’s teeth out with one solid punch.
“Those aren’t even my worst qualities,” he croaks in response, waggling his eyebrows.
The man’s free hand is a blur in the air before it collides with his face in a heavy open-palmed slap. His head whips to the side and his lip catches on his teeth. He feels a burst of coppery blood well up in his mouth.
“I’m not paying you to talk, faggot. Shut the fuck up,” the man barks, using the hold on his throat to slam his head against the wall for emphasis.
“Alright, alright! Jaysus,” he rolls his eyes, raising his hands in mock surrender.
He takes comfort in the fact that he could have snapped the man’s arm before it even touched him, if he wanted to. But that wasn’t the deal.
Keeping his cool has always been the hardest part, especially with this freaky bastard. The sex is nothing really. He’s never had much shame, no real hard limits to speak of. Taking physical punishment? No problem. He’ll survive, he always does. This asshole couldn’t imagine the shite his body’s been through, even in his worst nightmares. But resisting the urge to taunt this redneck closet-case piece of work, this is the real challenge.
“Open up,” the man demands, holding up two fingers.
He can’t help but wince at the sight of the hairy knuckles and dirty fingernails hovering in front of his face.
The money, the money, he chants internally.
He knows what to expect, but it’s still an unwelcome surprise when the fingers jam mercilessly all the way to the back of his throat. He chokes back the urge to hurl.
“This is all the lube yer gonna get, so make it worth your while,” the man chuckles to himself, adding another finger, and it feels like he’s trying to shove his whole hand in.
Just when he thinks can’t stand any more, the fingers withdraw, connected by a thin strand of blood-tinged saliva to his swollen lower lip. He coughs and splutters, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You’re disgusting,” the man snarls, gripping his chin and jerking it. “Pathetic. Aren’t you? Fucking junky loser.”
He just smiles defiantly, the widest toothy grin he can muster. The cunt said no talking. Never said anything about smiling.
The man’s expression darkens.
“Drop your pants and turn around,” he drawls. “I’ve seen enough of yer stupid fucking face.”
He complies without comment, fumbling with the knot of his belt. His pants fall to his ankles and he kicks them off.
“Yer gonna leave here limpin’. I’ll make sure of it,” the man growls, giving his ass a hard slap.
He mouths silent insults at the wall, unconcerned whether or not the man can see it.
The heat of the man’s body behind him is gone for a brief moment, then a hand on his shoulder forces him forward over the crate in front of him. He catches himself on his elbows.
The man moves in closer behind him and seizes his wrists, yanking them behind his back. With no way to support himself, he slumps forward, bare chest pressed up against the top of the crate.
The man pulls his wrists into an x shape that rests on his tailbone and he knows what’s about to happen even before he feels his own makeshift belt circle around them.
“I think we ought to discuss this new development,” he tells the man, glancing back over his shoulder warily. "What are yeh doin' exactly?"
“Nothin’ to discuss. We do it my way, or I walk,” the man threatens, tugging on the rope.
Cassidy isn’t fully convinced, but he can’t chance blowing this. He turns his head to face the wall again, giving his wordless consent. He feels the man secure several tight knots that pinch the insides of his wrists.
“That’s what I thought,” the man huffs smugly, smacking the back of his head.
He feels a hand on his ass and then the man’s thick fingers begin to dig into him roughly. He’s grateful for the little bit of slickness of saliva left on them but it burns nonetheless. His nose scrunches with discomfort, jaw clenched.
Then the fingers are gone. He knows the respite won’t last long, so he savours it while he can. He hears a zipper, the familiar crinkle of a condom wrapper and the snap of latex behind him and he takes a steadying breath.
“Almost wonder if I should double bag it,” the man sneers.
“Aye, probably. I don’t know where ye’ve been,” he mutters under his breath before he can stop himself.
The man slams his head down in response, and his cheek meets the top of the crate. Strong fingers press into his skull, holding him down.
“I told you to shut yer mouth, junky piece of shit.”
He feels the head of the man’s cock lining up against him and then it slams into him without warning in one powerful stroke. The fronts of his thighs collide with the side of the crate and a bolt of pain shoots up inside of him.
He hisses through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, and his back arches away from the man. He wants to turn away so the man can’t see his pained expression but he can’t with the hand on his head.
The man withdraws all the way once and then proceeds to pound into him in a merciless rhythm, slamming their hips together. He can feel the man’s balls slap against him with each forceful thrust.
The man grabs a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back at a painful angle, and a small whine escapes him despite his best efforts to keep silent. He curses himself.
“That’s it, you dirty faggot. Cry for me,” the man taunts him.
He’s not going to make another sound. It’s not gonna happen.
The man releases his hair, still pounding into him furiously, and both big hands circle around his neck from behind. They clench viciously, crushing his throat. His mouth opens reflexively to suck in air, but there’s nothing. His arms strain against their bonds.
The man doesn’t he know he can’t die. He doesn’t know. He’s a genuinely sick fuck, he realizes, face contorting with anger. His whole body feels like it’s vibrating with rage, but he waits for it to be over, gritting his teeth.
Come on, you piece of shit, his mind screams. Hurry the fuck up.
“Fuck!” the man groans loudly, slamming into him one final time.
He feels the man’s cock twitch inside him and the hands on his neck loosen at last, sliding down his back.
He splutters for air, chest heaving, as the man slowly withdraws from him. It burns on the way out too, and he can feel his muscles twitching.
“Not bad,” the man ruffles his hair patronizingly. “Not nearly worth a hundred, but it’ll do me for now.”
He struggles to stand, wincing at the pain between his legs.
“Untie me,” he demands, turning to face the man who is zipping up his fly.
“Nah,” the man waves a hand dismissively. “You’ll figure it out on yer own.”
And with that, the man turns to leave, spitting on the ground on his way out.
“See ya next time,” he calls over his shoulder.
Once he’s sure the man is out of earshot, Cassidy lets out a growl of frustration, teeth bared.
He squats down awkwardly next to an open cardboard box full of Jesse’s junk and fumbles around for the pocket knife he knows is in there somewhere.
He thinks about the delicious burn of whiskey that will hit his throat soon as he saws angrily at the rope behind his back with the dull blade. He thinks about the face Jesse will make when he receives his offering tonight.
----------
The drugs in his veins have long since soothed the aches of his body and engulfed his mind in a pleasant haze. He’s all cleaned up, fully stocked on supplies and sprawled on the front steps of the church when Jesse finally saunters home from his visitations. The arse-face boy has needed a lot of consoling lately.
He recognizes the familiar shape of the black-clad figure in the distance, even in the dark. He’d know it anywhere.
A quarter of the bottle of whiskey is missing already, but it couldn’t be helped.
“You’re like a puppy, waiting for me to get home,” Jesse laughs, taking a seat on the step next to him.
Cassidy snorts in response and holds out the bottle of whiskey wordlessly.
Jesse accepts, face brightening as he turns the bottle over in his hands to inspect it.
“Hey, where’d you get your hands on this?” he raises an eyebrow, noticing the unfamiliar label.
“I’ve got my ways, padre,” Cassidy shrugs, looking away as he lights up a cigarette.
Jesse tips his head back, takes a thirsty swig of the amber liquid and sighs gratefully. He sets the bottle down between them with a thud.
“This is some good stuff, well done,” he comments, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, breathing in the night air deeply, expression serene. Cassidy could stare at him forever.
“Thought ye deserved a little somethin', after all ye've done for me,” he replies softly. “Here, grab one ‘o these too.”
He holds out the pack of cigarettes and Jesse extracts one, placing it between his lips.
“Thanks Cass,” he drawls, glancing over at him with a warm smile. “I appreciate it.”
Cassidy's mouth can't help but curl into a lopsided grin of its own at the preacher's approval.
“No problem. That’s what friends are fer, ain't it?”
Jesse gives him a friendly clap on the back. The warm hand lingers for a moment and Cassidy feels like he’s melting under the other man’s touch. But then too quickly it's gone.