Mad Sweeney is fucking horny.
Admittedly, Sweeney thinks to himself, this is not exactly a new development. Spending the better half of a month dragging his ass around the country in the back of the world’s shittiest taxi doesn’t exactly do much to stimulate the senses, and it’s not like he has much time to himself anyways traveling with the Dead Wife and their Omani chauffeur.
The cab hits a bump in the road and Sweeney is thrown from his perch across the backseat, knocking his head on the car door.
He holds his head miserably with one hand, his pride bruised more than his skin. He can see the dead bitch laughing in the rearview merely, while Salim just fidgets his hands around the wheel and anxious and apologetic look in his eyes.
He says nothing, however, and the trio return to their usual silence, listening to whatever shitty country music is playing over the rural radio station that keeps coming in and out of range as they drive.
Sweeney readjusts in his seat, sitting upright and tugging and his clothes, suddenly self-aware and uncomfortable. He tries to lean his head against the window but the gravel of the back road makes for a miserable headache, so he resigns himself to leaning back in his seat.
His eyes drift to Laura sitting shotgun.
Even with flies buzzing around her frizzy hair and pieces of dry skin flaking off of her face, she’s still undeniably beautiful. Her high cheekbones, her delicate features, her big eyes- mesmerizing even with their milky white color.
If she looks like this now, Sweeney thinks, she must’ve been one hell of a knockout when she was alive. Maybe it’s the desperation of being on the road for so long, but the more he looks at her, the more he wants her more.
The corpse catches him staring and he looks away, but not before she sees him.
“What?” she asks with a sneer. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Her pretty lips form a bitter smile.
He grumbles a bullshit response about seeing something past the window, but she just flips him off. Sweeney returns the gesture.
So beautiful, and so in love, yet so repulsed by him. Sweeney has spent weeks hearing her wax on about Shadow this Shadow that… to the point where he may as well have been married to the guy himself, he knows so damn much about him.
Sweeney thinks back to when they met at the bar. Shadow didn’t seem particularly friendly or talkative, but then again, most people weren’t when Sweeney was involved. But still, he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that this living corpse was dragging her sorry ass across the country chasing after a man who doesn’t seem to love her back.
As much as she had insisted back at the crocodile bar that kissing Sweeney had made her all warm and goddamn fuzzy inside, Sweeney still can’t help but feel like she’s chasing after someone who can never love her back.
Pot, kettle he thinks to himself.
Shadow may never love his dead wife the way he did before she cheated, but there’s no chance in hell that she’ll ever love Sweeney half as much as she ever loved Shadow.
Though he’s no stranger to misery, it’s a certain kind of sting to be next to her, constantly with her, just an arm’s reach away from being with her, feeling her. He knows she’d be clammy- she’s a goddamn corpse, but damn if he doesn’t give a rat’s ass.
Sweeney just can’t get her out of his head- kissing her, touching her, fucking her. It’d probably be goddamn disgusting, but he still wants to know how it feels to push into her, his massive body dwarfing her tiny frame.
She’s probably tight, Sweeney thinks to himself, feeling vile as he does so. He may be a brute, but he still knows that imagining the feeling of fucking another man’s dead wife is a new low, even for him.
But he’s so tired, and it’s been so goddamn long since he’s had a good fuck, that there’s nothing more he can do than adjust his jeans when he knows the two upfront aren’t looking and resign himself to his miserable fantasies.
He stays this way, torturing himself with the thought of fucking Laura until they cab putters into the parking lot of a motel 6 that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since it was built in the 70s.
He watches as Laura hops out of the car, stretching and smiling when her joints crack with a satisfying pop after a long day of being cooped up. When she stretches her shirt rides up and he can see the haphazard black stitches that are keeping her chunks of flesh together, and he can’t help but hate that the sight turns him on.
On the other side of the car, Salim has quietly collected his things- his rug and skull cap in one hand, the wallet belonging to whoever the hell Ibrahim bin Irem really is in the other. Sweeney doesn’t have any shit to take with him, so he heaves himself out of the cab with a groan and rubs absentmindedly at his eye, which has crusted up during his on-and-off backseat naps.
Together, the three of them make their way towards the desk, where a slightly overweight but friendly-looking young woman gives them a tired smile.
Before Salim or himself has a chance to say anything, Laura starts talking.
“Two rooms, please.”
She gives a tight, insincere smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, but the girl behind the counter doesn’t seem phased. Sweeney zones out as the two women work out the logistics, letting his eyes wander around the dingy motel. There’s a vending machine in the far corner with water bottles, ibuprofen, condoms, and all sorts of other paraphernalia, and a depressed-looking potted plant next to it. He only zones back in when a key with a gaudy plastic tag is unceremoniously tossed at his chest. He fumbles to catch it, doing so before it manages to hit the ground, and he straightens up, ready to argue, but Laura has already started off down the hall.
He turns back to the counter girl, who is now twirling a strand of frizzy blonde hair around a pen. He clears his throat, and when she looks up, a blush crosses over her ruddy cheeks.
“The two of you are in 115. At the end of the hall on your left.”
Sweeney grunts his thanks and heads off in that direction. He can hear Salim giving the girl a quiet ‘thank you’ before he hurries to catch up with Sweeney. The pair walk quietly to the room, and Sweeney lets his eyes wander to Laura, who’s unlocking her room across the hall.
His palm feels empty, itching for his coin, but when he turns back, all he sees is a flash of brown hair, and Laura has disappeared into her room. He stares at the closed door, the ugly beige of the paint mocking him.
He looks down to the key in his hand, and back up at Salim/Not Salim/Ibrahim whatever the fuck, who is looking at him expectantly. With a frustrated noise, Sweeney jams the key into the lock, twisting it so quickly that he hears a quiet “snap” in the mechanism.
The door swings open to reveal-
One bed. It’s a king, thank fuck, which means his feet won’t be poking out from underneath the comforter for the entire goddam night, but it still leaves a problem.
His gaze falls on Salim, who looks uneasy at the sight of the singular bed, his teeth worrying at the corner of his lip in a way that Sweeney probably shouldn’t be noticing. His nervous eyes turn to Mad Sweeney, who stares back. It’s late, he’s vaguely pissed off and tired, and he really doesn’t have the energy to go back and hassle the girl at the counter.
He says as much to Salim, and without waiting for a response, he storms off to the bathroom, locking the door and turning on the shower. He peels off his jacket, shirt, and wife-beater as steam slowly fogs up the room and wriggles out of his jeans hastily.
When he finally steps into the shower, the water is so hot that it scalds his skin. He hisses and moves to turn the faucet to a colder setting, but something stops him. He stands there, letting the water pour over him, rinsing away the foul smell of Laura’s rotting flesh, the useless wintergreen cab air freshener, and Salim’s subtly spiced smell that have been surrounding him all day.
As he rinses with the tiny bottled soaps he’s surprised are even in this sorry excuse for a hotel, his thoughts drift to Laura. Her smooth, pale skin, creamy in death. He imagines what it would be like if she were here with him, now, the water curving around her small breasts and down her spine. He pictures himself pushing her up against the wall, her legs easily wrapping around his waist. He thinks of the feel of sliding into her, of the sound of her moan as they fuck under the scalding stream of water.
It’s enough to turn him on even more, but as he wraps a slippery hand around his cock and starts to jerk off, he can’t bring himself to completion. Maybe it’s the dingy motel or the creak of the shower or the disgust he feels with himself, but his dick stays flaccid, despite his best efforts.
With a frustrated grunt he turns off the water, turned on now more than ever but seemingly unable to find an outlet. He towels off, the thin fabric scratching his skin, and slips back into his wife beater, boxers, and jeans.
He opens the door and as steam rushes out of the tiny bathroom, his eyes fall on Salim, who is kneeling on his rug in the corner of the room, mid-prayer. He looks up, surprised, and his big brown eyes fall on Sweeney.
“Shower’s yours if you want it” he chokes out, and Salim gives a small, timid smile in thanks. He turns back to his prayers and bends over until his head is touching the floor like he’s some sort of yoga instructor.
Sweeney feels an odd sensation like he’s intruding on something that shouldn’t be seen, as he watches Salim’s ratty sweater rise up, revealing the thinnest strip of tan skin. He hears Salim whisper a few more phrases in what Sweeney assumes is Arabic, before pressing his head to the rug a final time and sitting up.
The look on his face as he turns back in one that Sweeney can’t quite place- something between peaceful and longing. It’s certainly not directed at Sweeney, but the emotion on his face can’t help but stir something inside Sweeney that he instantly pushes down.
Salim neatly rolls his rug back up, slides his cap off, and tucks them away in the nightstand to the left of the bed. Without saying anything else, he slips past Sweeney and disappears into the bathroom quickly.
Sweeney stares at the bathroom door for a few seconds, not quite sure why, before ambling over and shutting off the light switch. The last thing he wants is for the two of them to fumble through an awkward conversation about their sleeping arrangement after Salim gets out of the shower, so Sweeney slips under the covers and tries to force himself asleep.
As he listens to the shower run, his thoughts begin to drift again, but this time it’s not Laura that he pictures pressed up against the ceramic tiles of the bathroom wall. He wonders if Salim is a noisy fuck. He has a habit of talking your ear off when you just want to tell him to shut the hell up, but he’s also prone to spells of long silence, and for some reason, Sweeney can’t imagine him moaning profanities, even if he is getting his backdoor kicked in by some genie.
The thought of Salim fucking a bright-blue cartoon character is enough to make his mind drop the image, and Sweeney is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he’s lying in the dark in a dusty hotel room with a headache and a semi. He wonders what Laura is doing now, but his thoughts are cut short when he hears the water turn off in the bathroom.
A few moments later and he hears the door creak open- once again feeling the residual heat from the shower creep its way around their room. There’s some shuffling as Salim (presumably) adjusts to the dark, and Sweeney feels him lifting the covers and sliding underneath them.
The silence is deafening, and every time either of them makes a sound or shifts in the bed, it feels like the noise is amplified by a thousand. He tries to drift off - seriously, this time, but his mind just begins to wander. It’s worse now, he can feel the heat from Salim’s body just inches away from his own, he can smell the musk of his hair and the cheap hotel aftershave. Before he knows it his dick is getting hard again, and the combined feel and smell of Salim and his longing thoughts of Laura are overwhelming.
A month ago- half a month ago, even, he never would have done what he does next. But it’s been so damn long since he’s had anything other than a cold bed and a wank in the shower, so he throws caution to the wind.
Looking at Salim’s hunched silhouette, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in from the window, he puts a hand on the other man’s shoulder, not sure if he’s hoping that Salim’s awake, or not. It’s out of his hands now, though, as Salim turns into the touch.
Salim turns to him, a question in his eyes. He seems confused, but there’s also a look in his eyes that Sweeney knows means he’s not 100% lost as to what’s going on. Sweeney swallows, uncharacteristically nervous and unsure of how to proceed. He settles on gruff and curt- the easy defense mechanism.
“It’s just this once. Just for one night.”
Salim swallows, the pale sheet slipping off of his shoulder. Sweeney can’t quite place the look on his face, but he knows it isn’t repulsion. Fuck it, Sweeney thinks to himself.
“Do you want this?”
There’s a slight pause before Salim responds, and in that time Sweeney thinks he’ll go insane. But Salim answers, quickly and curtly.
With that, there’s no question remaining. Sweeney is on him immediately, swinging one leg around so that he’s straddling Salim, sitting over him as they both shuck their shirts. It’s difficult to take off his jeans in the dark but Sweeney manages to peel them off anyways, and soon he’s working on Salim’s pants as well.
Soon the duo are naked and panting in the dark of the room, and Sweeney manages out “suck” in a rough voice. Salim asks no questions and barely hesitates, hastily taking Sweeney’s proffered hand into his mouth and wrapping his tongue around the digits one by one.
If Sweeney had any higher brain function currently working, he would’ve thought to himself how this hardly seems like Salim’s first time having a quick and rough fuck, as the fingers slide in and out of his wet mouth obscenely. The warm suction becomes overwhelmingly good far too quickly and before Sweeney comes to an embarrassingly fast end, and pulls his fingers out of Salim’s mouth.
Picturing Laura and her pert ass, he trails his spit-soaked hand down Salim’s stomach, feeling the muscle contract underneath as he does so, and find’s Salim’s hole, pushing one finger in quicky and savoring the little moan the motion elicits from Salim. His hole is tight and warm around Sweeney’s admittedly large finger, and it’s been so damn long since Sweeney has had a proper shag that the feel of the man’s tight heat around his finger turns him on more than he’d like to admit.
The in-and-out push isn’t easy with spit as lube, but Salim rolls his hips as an indicator that he can take more, and soon Sweeney is three fingers deep in the man. As he pushes he can feel the hole stretching around his fingers, and Salim keeps making quiet little moans as the two of them rock together. Although he’ll never be able to be properly stretched without actual lube, Salim managed to stutter out an “I’m ready”, and Sweeney takes his word for it.
He pulls his fingers out and Salim whines at the loss, but Sweeney knows he won’t be empty for long. He pulls Salim’s boxers from around his ankles as he flips him onto his hands and knees, and Sweeney settles into a position with his chest across Salim’s back, covering the entirety of the other man’s body with his own.
Sweeney spits in his own hand again before guiding his cock to just outside of Salim’s hole. The man beneath him lets out an almost imperceptible moan, but Salim’s body gives him away as he pushes his hips back in an attempt for purchase. Sweeney takes that as good a sign as any, and in one swift movement, pushes his cock into Salim’s welcoming heat.
Salim cries out at the force and Sweeney moans with the sudden warmth of it all- the tight feeling around his cock that he’s been longing after for weeks finally here. He’s suddenly caught up in the sensation and overwhelmed by the feeling, and he begins to set a demanding pace- snapping his hips back and forth and watching in the pale moonlight the point where his hips meet Salim’s.
The man in question is moaning and writhing beneath him- his face pressed against the mattress and his hands red with tension as they grip onto the thin hotel sheets. They rock together for god knows how long- the only sounds filling the room are Sweeney’s pants of exertion and the obscene slaps of skin as their hips meet each other’s over and over again.
Sweeney wants to stay like this forever- it’s been so damn long since he’s fucked someone good and proper like this, but his cock has other plans, and he can feel Salim beginning to slow down beneath him. Sensing the end approaching, Sweeney reaches down around Salim’s stomach and wraps a hand around his unattended cock, quickly jerking it in rhythm with his final thrusts. Salim comes quickly and with a small cry, and Sweeney follows him moments later- pulling out and cumming all over the man’s back with a groan that comes from deep in his gut.
The two of them lie there in the afterglow, Sweeney’s body atop Salim’s, until Sweeney becomes hyper-aware of the cum beginning to dry between them and rolls away. Neither one of them says anything, and in the morning when Sweeney wakes up, Salim is gone.