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Tight-Ass

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“You look like you could use a drink.”

Ichabod wonders what Mr. Hawley means by using a drink. It seems odd verb choice. One is meant to imbibe, not use. What an odd time to be alive. Still, he supposes if that is what Mr. Hawley means then he is quite right. A splurging of alcohol would not go amiss after the day they’d had. Or week. Or year, really. It’s all been difficult.

So he sits across from Mr. Hawley at the rickety old table, the closest thing he has to a dining room in this poor excuse for an apartment. He lets the other man pour him a tumbler of amber whiskey, much more than he knows is wise to partake. Ichabod doesn’t find himself caring much about that now, however. He supposes a life like his requires moments of abandon like this, wherein rationality is thrown to the wayside like a pair of tattered shoes.

He doesn’t even care that the man offering him this respite is one he doesn’t care for much at all. Mr. Hawley is a self-absorbed, dishonest thief and Ichabod, quite frankly, still doesn’t trust him any farther than he could throw him. But currently, he has nothing to lose. He has nothing on his person, physical or otherwise, that Mr. Hawley would be after.

Or so he thinks. Ichabod might have been smart but he was not without his own naiveté.

Ichabod is intent to drink in silence, but Mr. Hawley, of course, wants to talk. And not about anything in particular. As far as he is concerned, the two of them have absolutely nothing in common aside from this moment in time.

“You’re not as much of a tight-ass as you want people to believe, I bet,” Hawley says after a while. Ichabod figures he must have said something to procure that comment, but he doesn’t remember what. His head has already begun to swim.

Hawley continues. “I don’t usually like pretentious fucks like you. To be honest, I still don’t really like you. But I don’t hate you either. I think once we get under that crumpets-and-tea façade of yours, there’ll be something to really like.”

“I wish I could say the same for you, Mr. Hawley,” Ichabod scoffs. “But as far as I can tell, there isn’t much redeemable about you other than your generosity with alcohol.”

He expects the other man to find this comment offensive. He expects him to get belligerent but Hawley just laughs and his eyes twinkle in a way Ichabod finds curious.

“Think I like you better when you’ve been drinking, Crane.”

Hawley pours them both some more, but somewhere in the process he gets whiskey on his already filthy shirt. Ichabod wonders if he ever bathes at all…and then realizes he doesn’t have much right to judge on personal cleanliness- not where clothes are concerned, at any rate. Abbie would have kicked him if she knew his thoughts.

Apparently this spill is one too much for Hawley and he stands to peel off his shirt.

Ichabod finds himself staring. He’s not really sure why, even if it isn’t the first time a male torso has attracted his fixated attention. Not all men’s chests warrant his gaze and it’s not quite the same fixation he has with a female bosom, but they are still beautiful in their own way- Hawley’s in particular, though he won’t admit that out loud. There is something indefinably lovely about the way the muscles gyrate and ripple underneath his taut skin, with the slopes and curves and dips, with the dusting of blonde hair that extends past his navel, only visible with the light from the outside.

Ichabod could usually just excuse this fixation as a simple appreciation for the human form, but there is something about the way Hawley proceeds to stretch after taking off his garment that makes blood flow rapidly between his legs. He keeps them pushed together for fear of his appreciation becoming evident.

Hawley smirks knowingly but says nothing as he goes to take care of his soiled clothing. Ichabod does what he can, meanwhile, to rid himself of the flushing in his cheeks and the semi-hardened member between his legs.

He’s hardly made any progress when there is suddenly a hand wrapping around his that is holding the empty tumbler…and hot breath against his ear.

“Did you want more…?” Hawley asks and, somehow, with all of Ichabod’s willful ignorance, he knows he’s not being asked about whiskey.

Ichabod doesn’t know how to answer audibly, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He’s already inclining his head into the delicious warmth of Hawley’s breath and that’s all the permission the other man needs.

Hawley tilts Ichabod’s chin towards him, not-so gently, and presses their lips together. The kiss is not genteel; he does not slowly massage their mouths and wait for more, but kisses with what can only be described as heated abandon. Ichabod wants to be scandalized when Hawley’s tongue is pushing forward, when it’s swirling around his own. Kissing this way wasn’t something even he and Katrina did until after they were married. Hawley doesn’t care and neither does Ichabod, if he’s honest. He tastes so wonderful, metallic from alcohol and sweet with something indefinable.

Ichabod realizes he smells just as nice too, surprisingly, when he is hoisted out of his chair and onto the surface of the table. That Hawley could be strong enough to lift him up just by the back of his thighs should probably terrify him. Not so, as this only arouses him further. In fact, his need is rather painful and dire now, exacerbated only by the fact that Hawley is kissing and sucking delicious bruises to the slope of his neck. Ichabod whines for more.

“Not so prim and proper when I’ve got you like this, huh?” Hawley gloats. He reaches down and grips Ichabod’s length through the fabric of his trousers as if to emphasize his point.

Ichabod hisses. “You’re-…you’re a menace…”

He doesn’t intend for the comment to be discouraging and it isn’t. Hawley evidently loves to be insulted, Ichabod has gathered that much. As a result of this or, perhaps, just because he wants to, Hawley peels Ichabod’s pants to his knees and then kneels down on his own to take the hardened length into his mouth.

Ichabod barely has time to exhale in relief at his cock being freed, because it has only just touched air when Hawley’s taking it down again, this time into wet, hot, silken confines. He surprises himself when he cries out a bit in aroused disbelief. He wouldn’t say that Hawley is better at this than anyone else who’s done it to him…but that’s only because he doesn’t want to forsake his late wife. He imagines Hawley has more experience anyway. The comparison wouldn’t be fair.

Either way, he is good at it. God in heaven, is he good at it.

“A-all that-….all that inane talking you do…” Ichabod struggled. “I-…I see your mouth has- oh god…benefited, at least…”

He feels Hawley grin around his cock, right before hollowing his cheeks and taking him down deeper into his throat. Ichabod, in turn, threads fingers through his dirty-blonde hair and has to lean back on his elbow as he encourages him forward. Meanwhile, his legs simply cannot spread out wide enough and that’s primarily because of his trousers.

Hawley sees the problem and after taking him down a few more times for good measure, he pulls back to shuck the offending item –and his boots- off.

Ichabod is properly offended when Hawley proceeds to spread him out wide, prop his knees up on his shoulders and descend downward to-…to put his mouth down there???

“What are you-?” he attempts, but his question is cut off when this horribly lewd act turns pleasurable. He does not want to like it. There should be nothing to like about a man licking one’s rectal opening. It’s barbaric.

And Ichabod doesn’t just like it, he loves it. He grips his hands into fists and inclines his head back while uncontrollable moans spill from his throat. All the while, some still reasonable part of his mind assures him this is all because of the alcohol. Were he in his right mind he would have the proper disgust. Surely.

But for now…

Hawley moves back after awhile, earning an embarrassing whine of protest from a strung out Ichabod. The man seems pleased with himself, even more than he usually does, and that is annoying while making him that much more wanton.

“I knew once I got you past all that prim and proper shit I’d find something I liked…” Hawley gloats. His fingers circle and tease and prod until one uses the slickness he’s left behind to press deep inside. “What better way to do it than to fuck you silly on a dining room table?”

Ichabod has already guessed the logical conclusion of all of this. He’s not sure how much he appreciates Hawley’s presumption, but at this point he doesn’t care. He’s never had sex with a man before, never thought he’d want to, and now it’s the only thing in the world he can think about. He fears that if it doesn’t happen now, if Hawley decides to just leave him here without release, he may just die.

“I’ve-…ung…yet to find anything- god!...that I like about you…!” Ichabod lies.

As has been the case so far, Hawley is mysteriously charmed by Ichabod’s continued insults. He answers by flipping him, bending him over the table’s edge, and pressing a second finger inside. There is the presence of something more now, some sort of oil or lubricant to make this more functional and Ichabod decides that maybe there is some gentility to Hawley’s character after all. But just a little.

Either way, Hawley proceeds to finger him hard and fast, his touch flirting with some deep source of pleasure Ichabod hasn’t acquainted himself with yet. He wants more, but still holds back from giving the other man evidence of this even as he grips the opposite side of the table and fucks his hips back into his touch. He’s not really hiding anything, but Hawley appreciates the effort. It makes this that much more erotic.

This continues until Ichabod has no choice but to make noise again. Fingers are wonderful, but they’re not enough. It’s only when he shows this absolute lack of control that Hawley relents and decides to give them what they both want.

He pulls his fingers out and Ichabod makes another sound of loss as he presses his forehead to the table’s surface. There is the vague, muted sound of activity behind him, of what he hopes to be the swishing of clothes falling away rather than being put back on. After all, Hawley has the upper hand now and could easily leave Ichabod where he is. Given their rapport thus far he wouldn’t have been surprised.

But Hawley doesn’t leave. Instead, Ichabod suddenly feels something much bigger than fingers start to press on his entrance.

“Oh deargodyes…” he hisses, returning to awareness, arching his back and pushing himself open to start taking it in.

He hears Hawley curse his own sounds of pleasure now, imagines that he must be squeezing himself at the base of his need to hold off impending release. It’s clear that neither of them are going to last very long at all once this begins.

Ichabod grits his teeth, not pleased with Hawley’s torturously slow pace. “Get- get on with it, goddamn you!”

Hawley whispers back something completely inappropriate like, “Oh fuck yeah, baby…!”, but Ichabod tries not to mind because it means he’s just as desperate. As such, Hawley pushes forward and Ichabod is suddenly being filled and stretched in the strangest, most wonderful of ways. He imagines the alcohol takes away some of the pain this action might have caused otherwise.

Either way, he’ll not be walking properly for a week. At least.

Hawley’s rough hands grip his hips as he begins a cautious speed. Ichabod wonders why he’s taking this gradually when he knows full-well what they both need.

“F-for godsake! Do it like you mean it or not at all!”

Even though this is an exclamation of frustration, Ichabod also knows it will arouse and encourage the other man. This is an accurate estimation. Hawley grips his hip harder and, with his free-hand, grabs a fistful of the other man’s long hair that has gone completely free somewhere in the flurry of movement. He pulls it back hard and uses these two points of leverage to thrust up into him at furiously unforgiving pace.

Ichabod is done for now. Any remnants of dignity or rational thought have been replaced with this primal need Hawley has awoken in him. He knows he is crying out, moaning, clawing the table and thrusting his hips back. He feels almost out-of-body, one part of him completely immersed in this moment and another watching, red-faced, from a distance.

Whether he likes it or not, Hawley is the first person to see him like this. No sexual encounter or partner that came before could match what this is doing for him.

He flushes a deeper red when Hawley then spanks him…several times, each one increasing in force. Some part of him is so horribly offended, ashamed, but not because another man had the gall to do it- oh no, it’s because he is enjoying this immensely and whispers out a dark, “Harder…harder!”

Ichabod doesn’t know if he means this about the thrusts inside of him or the spanking or both at once, but Hawley favors the last of these and it’s exactly what he needs.

He must have reached down instinctively to stroke himself because it is when his prostate is hit just so, coupled with Hawley’s calloused hand landing another blow to his backside, that stars burst behind his eyes and he is spilling hot release over his fist.

A cry that doesn’t sound entirely his own emits from his throat as he finishes. Hawley presses his mouth to the back of Ichabod’s neck -his breath still deliciously hot and his beard rough as sand- and is whispering praises and encouragements as he gives one more thrust. His own keen of completion follows suit and he must have pulled out just before because Ichabod can feel the telling streaks of hot semen on his lower back.

The two of them remain here for a moment, the haze of sex still thick around them as they catch their collective breath.

Ichabod doesn’t expect it, but Hawley’s gentility from earlier follows through. After a moment of recovery, he caresses Ichabod’s sore backside and places kisses down his spine as he gently pulls out of him.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” Hawley says. Ichabod can hear the smirk and he wants to be annoyed by it. He is a little, but mostly now he just finds himself pathetically endeared.

“Then why did you bother?” He lifts himself up from his vulnerable position and shifts his trousers back up his legs.

Hawley places a hand at the small of Ichabod’s back and uses this as leverage to guide him into a surprisingly deep kiss.

He then pulls back with another obnoxious, charming smirk. “Just can’t resist that tight ass of yours, what can I say?”

Ichabod is on the verge of assuring him that he will not be used for sport and then discarded, that he will be very sorry indeed if he thought this encounter required no follow up.

But before he can do this, Hawley has stepped out of what remains of his clothes and taken Ichabod’s unsoiled hand.

“What do you say we both step in the shower, Shakespeare? You smell awful.”

Ichabod acquiesces to this proposal with a, “The feeling is mutual. Fiend.

As the two of them continue onward to whatever undoubtedly sexual encounter awaits them in bathing, Ichabod decides this must be the beginning of something very unexpected indeed.