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“Jesus fuck, you’re having me on.”
Niall was never smoking with Ruben again. Every time he did, he ended up agreeing to do the most ridiculous shit. Today, for instance, Ruben was sat on his bed, watching him like an Olympic judge as he made Niall show him how he'd try to fuck a girl on a pillow. His fault, bringing up Mona. Ruben'd taken that as an opportunity to remind him he was a godawful shag, which then led to Niall defending himself, ‘cause it’s not his fault Mona wanted to be on top, then Ruben suggesting he prove it.
“What?”
“What d’you mean, what, y’look like a fucking dippy bird! How the hell- naw, stop, c'mere." Ruben lays back, and his thighs fall apart. "Hop on, Bambi, I'll play the girl. I'll even let ye touch my tits if ye like."
The joke does nothing to settle the twist in his gut, but Niall is nothing if not dutiful. He moves to kneel on the bed, hips hovering, and chooses to ignore Ruben’s batting eyelashes and nasal, “Ooh, Niall, fuck me, ye big stud. And that’s when you say, ‘aye, I will, ye dirty bitch-’”
“I don’t think women like to be called-”
“'Cause you're the female whisperer, are you? No, ye say that, and then you’re fucking her, right? None of that stiff spine shit, look."
Ruben presses his hands to Niall's back, fingers digging into the vertebrae, and he does his best to push Niall into a rolling motion. And, like a bad dream, Niall’s cock stirs in his joggers, and his hips go pliant under the guiding hand, and he presses forward to where the meat of Ruben’s thigh is, and oh, he can feel that. A matter of milliseconds, the time it takes his addled brain to catch up, take in the twitch of muscle and bleeding heat, and-
"Jesus Christ, you're hard!" Ruben's laughter rings out, seeming to ring especially loud in Niall's ears as he springs back, sitting on his haunches, hands to his crotch like he can hide it. Shame and relief. An amused Ruben is better than an offended Ruben. "Just from the air, ye wee cunt? Didnae even touch it.”
"I- I just-”
“Cannae help it? Course y’can't. Like a bitch in heat, ye are." The laughter tapers off into a lopsided sneer. "Get yer hand off yer cock." He does as he's told, though his hand hovers. Ruben's eyes follow the motion. “Alright, go on, then. Fuck my leg.”
Niall wants to tell him to fuck off. He’s humiliated enough as it is, he doesn’t need to-
Hands return to his hips, now dragging him back down. "Already crossed that line now, son, might as well go all the way. Dinnae want to hear ye wanking in the toilet again.” His head spins as he's positioned to rut against him, the firmness of Ruben's thigh drawing a whine from him. "Now put some back into it. Roll it like I just showed you, there's a good boy."
He does. He has no choice; his body's more honest than he is. He tries to ignore the prickling behind his eyes, the tightening in his throat. Always boy, always son, like he's a pet, a caricature of a younger brother, never a man. Christ, he hates it. "Son yerself."
“What?” A smack on his arse. Far from Ruben’s hardest. “Dinnae start backchatting me. Show me how ye fuck a woman, then, if you’re so fucking manly. Been waiting for minutes now.”
His teeth grit. "I dinnae want to-"
Another light smack, to his jaw this time. "Who gives a fuck what ye want?"
There it is. Always, there it is, the crack of the whip. Niall's tongue swipes his cheek. He tastes blood. "Fine," he spits. "Fine, ye- ye cunt, I'll- I'll-"
"Ooh, I'm scared, Bambi." Ruben's all sneers and mockery again, like Niall can't hurt him. Like he wouldn't even dare. He loves that, doesn't he? He loves to feel untouchable. "What're ye gonna do?"
A little stab, to see if it lands. "Call me Daddy."
"The fuck I will."
"Ye will, because ye always do, and ye will again."
There we fucking go. A near-imperceptible shift in the atmosphere, a shutter falling over Ruben's eyes. Niall's cock throbs. Ah, thought he'd not cottoned on, did he? Thought Niall couldn't take guesses as to what makes a man prefer the young offender's institute to his da's house? He can play that card.
“Shut yer mouth.”
He can’t.
"Rube, dinnae be like that. Ye make me hard, s’on you." The thigh under him trembles. He recalls a night, the first after Ruben came back, and he picks his weapon. "Been so long. I've missed ye. Can't ye let yer old man have a big hug-?”
He's flipped, and his windpipe goes shut. His hands scrabble at the fingers at his throat, body arching off the bed, and he feels the rush of sick joy at the fact that he's won. The pain's secondary, it's the reaction that matters.
“SHUT IT! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” One hand comes free, enough to let him gasp for air, before a fist collides with his face. Niall doesn't try to stop him. “NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE RUNNING YOUR MOUTH ON, YOU CUNT! YE DINNAE KNOW SHIT!”
It's a relief, in a way, as Ruben goes to town on him and the room, anything breakable getting trashed. There's a distant, detached part of him that's glad his mam and Maura are out. They’d only come and bitch him out for making Ruben be a psycho again. Niall can take it. He's taking it.
A punch to the stomach has him curling in on himself, and he feels something hot and sticky on his thigh. Ah, don’t tell him he’s pissed himself. Brilliant. Ruben doesn’t notice or care, the bastard just storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Niall waits until he hears the front door slam too. Then he carefully uncurls, taking stock. Nothing’s broken, he doesn’t think, though his ribs hurt like a bastard, and when he touches his face it comes away bloody. Everything hurts. But his pants are soaked, and when he dips a finger into the mess, his head swimming, he realizes it isn't piss. It's come.