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Brady kisses with tongue and teeth, licking into Sam's mouth and claiming it like he belongs there. He bites at Sam's lips, drawing blood and then licking it away with a pleased hum.
Brady holds him with bruising grip, rough hands sliding over Sam's body hard enough to ache. He grabs at Sam's ass, his arms, his neck. He pulls Sam against him so hard it's like he wishes he could make them become one through sheer force of will.
Brady smiles, and Brady laughs, and Brady pushes a pill into Sam's mouth and kisses him until Sam is forced to swallow it, and Brady watches him with dark eyes as Sam becomes loose-limbed and spaced out, riding the wave of whatever it is he was just given.
This is never how Sam pictured it, when he imagined being with Brady. Because he has imagined it, imagined it from the very first day a beautiful boy sat down next to him in class and grinned at him, asking if he'd actually done the summer reading. Brady was kind and charismatic and intelligent and Sam's best friend, and Sam loved him, loved him in so many ways, always imagined getting to have Brady like this, too, and not just hearing about what Brady got up to with others.
But it was...softer, when Sam thought about how it would go. Not soft, per say, since he knew too much of Brady to think he would be capable of doing anything without passion, and Sam wouldn't have wanted it anyway, but not—this. Not this sensation of...ownership, the way Brady manipulates his body like he has every right to take whatever he wants. Kissing him and grinding against him with all that passion Sam expected but none of the care. Not a single sign that Brady actually gives a shit about him.
Sam doesn't know why he's surprised. Brady has been—different, since coming back from Thanksgiving break. Been in a complete spiral, free-falling into drugs and alcohol and so much unsafe behavior that Sam has spent many nights terrified his friend would wind up dead. Brady has been sharp and caustic, sneering at Sam and insulting him for any attempt Sam makes to help him. He's been dismissive and...and cruel, so why wouldn't sex go the same way?
Sam knows he could stop this. Slightly less so now, with the drug in his system, but he still could. Definitely could've before it got to this stage; Brady might be able to handle himself, but Sam spent his life fighting and killing, and one rich boy wouldn't be a problem for him. He could've pushed Brady away and made him stay away. He could've shut this down. Probably still could throw a pretty good punch if he wanted to put a stop to it now.
He doesn't know why he doesn't do it. This isn't how he wanted to have sex with Brady. He should put a stop to this. He doesn't want to be high when they have sex, doesn't want Brady to hold him so roughly, doesn't want there to be an element of violence in an act that should be fun. If Brady does want him this way, then surely he'd still want him once he's clean and sober—Sam should end this, and then revisit the topic once Brady is wholly himself again.
He doesn't know why he doesn't.
Brady is on top of him. Sam doesn't know when he stopped standing up, when he ended up on his back on the bed. Everything is too bright, too fuzzy. Colors dance across his vision. Brady is rolling his hips down against him, and it feels good, but at the same time it doesn't. Sam blinks dazedly up at the ceiling, and tilts his chin to give Brady better access when Brady starts sucking at his neck.
That'll leave bruises, Sam thinks distantly, a faint noise escaping him when Brady bites down. Probably won't be the only bruises he walks away from this with. He doesn't want bruises like that, not from this, not from Brady.
He still doesn't make any moves to stop him.
"Look at you," Brady whispers, his face swimming into view. His eyes are so dark they're nearly black, his expression intense. Nearly...captivated. He brushes his thumb slowly over Sam's bottom lip, and Sam's tongue darts out instinctively, inadvertently licking Brady's thumb and making Brady grin. "Damn, look at you. Maybe babysitting duty won't be so bad."
Sam doesn't know what that means. Doesn't think he actually cares all that much, not when in the next moment Brady is pulling at his clothes, pushing his jeans down and undoing the buttons on his shirt.
Cold fingers dance over Sam's chest and stomach, making him shiver. He can feel Brady tracing his scars, the signs from a life of hunting. Brady's never asked about them, the few times he's seen them. Just got a sad look in his eyes and very pointedly never brought up Sam's dad. (And Sam, in turn, never corrected the assumption his friend made.)
Brady doesn't look sad now. He looks...hungry, licking his lips as he scratches his nails over a scar on his hip left by a werewolf's claws.
The air is cold against his overheated skin as Brady strips him the rest of the way, then slides between his legs, grinding against him. The rough material of Brady's jeans grates Sam's oversensitive nerves. He opens his mouth to complain, and then closes it again. He leans into the hand Brady tangles in his hair, scalp stinging. He kisses weakly back when Brady captures his mouth again.
"Just like that," Brady purrs, and he's—inside Sam. Sam doesn't know when that happened. It doesn't feel bad, per say. It might even feel good. Sam can't quite tell. He stares at the popcorn ceiling up above him like it might be able to give him the answers he seeks, but the bursts of color provide no answers.
"Take me so well," Brady says, voice a guttural growl, and then he laughs breathlessly. "Shouldn't be surprised, should I? You were made for bigger things than me."
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, feeling nauseous. Brady moves and moves and moves and Sam's body is alight.
Sam opens his eyes, and Brady isn't inside of him anymore. He's lying next to Sam, one arm thrown over Sam's chest, snoring softly. He's still fully-clothed. Sam is still naked. He's sticky, now, too. It's a very odd thing to become aware of.
Sam turns, wincing faintly at his entire body aches, curling into Brady's side. His best friend is cold, but Sam ignores the sensation, pressing his head to Brady's chest.
Sleep comes, at some point. Sam couldn't identify when, only that he wakes up to an empty bed.