station72 | you're my blood sport. (closed)

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you're my blood sport. (closed)

CHARACTERS: Elliot + Kavinsky.
WHERE: The Red Coast, an empty barracks unit.
WHEN: Day 025ish.
SUMMARY: A drug deal.
WARNINGS: Drug use and adult themes. In the comments: Sexual coercion and harassment. Explicit sex. May also contain references to triggering material from either canon (mental illness, dubcon, child abuse, suicide). Spoilers for Mr Robot.

[ The morphine doesn't have side-effects like withdrawal. On the downside, it isn't a precise dose: hard to find that sweet spot where he's out of his head but not passing right out. But it works, and despite saying he isn't an addict, despite the disapproval of others in the Nest, Elliot's taken what Kavinsky gave him.

Let's talk in person, Kavinsky had said, during those brief moments of communication earlier, fleeting and restrained. And when Elliot finds them an empty room, everyone else out taking in the seaside sights, he looks just like he did before, under the robes of disguise: wide eyes, dark clothes, mohawk. But there's also something different about him. Straighter shoulders, maybe, or more eye contact. ]

You need to tell me what you want for this.

[ Is straight up the first thing out of his mouth. ]

I don't play games.

[ Which is also nothing like the passive guy who had taken the dream-morphine last time. ]

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[He doesn't invest in many people.

Not since Sirius disappeared so fast after Kavinsky had put something too close to faith in him. After that, Misato wormed her way into the rotten core of his heart, and Sam wouldn't give him room to breathe, but despite the wailing presence of the rest, he's sealed himself off with fervor. Before the Hive, all he'd wanted was a true connection--pure, uncut. But nowadays he'd like if he could shut off his brain permanently with the right combination of dream stuff and real, actual space drugs.

It's just a dream, though. The kind that happens when you're still waking, so nothing ever changes.]

Look who got back his balls. I wanna know whose purse they were in.

[Kavinsky's sitting, slouched low in his seat. And yet he keeps resembling a wicked prince of some renown. One that knows the crown is heavy but couldn't care less. He kicks his legs out in front of him.]

'Cause it sounds like you're hard up, which means they're about to be in mine.

Just because I want more, doesn't mean I need it. No withdrawals, remember?

[ No fucked up shivering-shaking overnights, all alone and thrashing, sweating, hallucinating, downing disgusting concoctions to try and detoxify. Which is lucky, because nobody in the Nest would appreciate having that poured into their brains.

Elliot stalks around in front of Kavinsky like a caged leopard, clearly on edge. ]

But fine, yes, I'm here for more. Name your price.

[No withdrawals doesn't mean no addiction; if anyone were to give credence to the destructive powers of the human mind, it would be Kavinsky. His mind has proven boundless, after all, able to tap into a renewable source of volatile energy every time he lays himself to rest. As soon as he gave Elliot his morphine, everything changed from a matter of manipulation to a matter of time.

He leans further back in his seat. His heels, once a few inches apart, suddenly spread wide before knocking against the floor of the tent again.]

Suck my dick.

[His feet turn away from each other, then point inward. Out again. Heels staying as the static point where they're planted down. A fidgety movement despite the control he's carrying over the rest of his body.

Did Elliot expect him to be sober for this?]

[ Elliot pauses in his own twitchy movement and looks at Kavinsky; right at him, eyes narrow. ]

I take it that's not just your way of telling me to fuck off.

[ His head tilts a little, the way a bird or a dog does, as he considers the teenage boy before him, splayed out laconic and ready. Gives a sharp, humorless bark of a laugh. ]

Ha. You're a little shit, kid. I should have figured you'd want to get your dick wet — not like money's any use to anyone here.

[ He rubs a hand over his chin thoughtfully, like he's considering whether or not this is worth it; though it's a cold kind of consideration, as distant from the subject matter as if Kavinsky has simply named a sum of money a little higher than he was expecting. ]

[They're both in consideration of each other; the problem with putting two wolves from separate packs in the same small room.

Kavinsky tilts his head back, eyes rolling back into his skull as he thinks about Elliot's face without all the trouble of looking at it.]

Too much for you, sweetheart? I can think about something else. But I'll need some time.

[He tucks his hands behind his head, propping it back up, returning his gaze to Elliot the person rather than Elliot the pseudo-fantasy. Across the mental link, Kavinsky betrays a smattering of uncertainty. Not because he doesn't crave what he asked for, but because the consequences when one is hooked up to a Hivemind could be unpleasant and sharp.

His sexuality is one of those lies he's coddled throughout the years.]

I don't know if baby can wait for his pills much longer, though, so you tell me, El. You tell me what you want to do.

[He'll let Elliot decide who dies tonight; Kavinsky's lie or Elliot's instant gratification.]

[ Time is not something Mr Robot can particularly spare: he wants Elliot docile for as much of the last part of this trip as possible. Sleeping, self-involved, quiet, out of the way. Unlikely to notice lost time or stick his goddamn nos win where it doesn't belong while Robot gets their bearings for the both of them.

Drugs don't particularly interest him — every pill Elliot has ever shoved in his maw, from Zoloft to ecstasy to over the counter painkillers has been designed and tested by pharmaceutical companies doing their best to keep the masses caught between medical debt and a kind of chemically induced zombification — and maybe some of that disdain filters through, in his body language if not the steel trap of his mind. Elliot leaks their shit everywhere but he knows how to keep his thoughts on motherfucking lockdown. ]

Don't call me El.

[ The main problem, as he sees it, is if all the mindlink bullshit means someone parrots events back and Elliot finds out Mr Robot isn't playing as dormant as he thought. Elliot actually cares about sex. But maybe he cares about drugs more. ]

Fine. Blowjob it is. Now?

Why are you in such a rush, man? Let's chat. What do I call you?

[Kavinsky's good at nicknames nobody asked for. 'El' would be one of the kinder, but Elliot is forgiven due to having no point of reference. The things K used to call Richard 'Dick' 'Daddy' Gansey the motherfucking III were a lot less pleasant. 'El' deserves applause for how little it ridicules the bearer. But if it makes the man snap like that, fine, fine, he can offer something else.

His skin's caught between feeling too tight over his flesh and rising with goose bumps. It picks and chooses stray patches to treat differently. The hairs on the backs of his arms stand up. His throat feels like someone placed it in a vice.

Fine. Blowjob it is.

Just like that, huh? Easy as putting a figurative gun to the druggie's head? Kavinsky forces smugness into his mind, onto the set of his mouth.

Who's calling whose bluff?]

Call me whatever you like! Just not that.

[ He would take "daddy" with no little amusement, or any other suitably awful nickname or endearment. El is too intimate, too much of people who have loved him.

Elliot drops to his knees, no preamble. Just kneels there in between Kavinsky's calves, not yet touching him, not rushing, but straightforward about the fact that this is what's happening now. ]

You want it slow, kid? Nice and sweet? You've got the wrong guy.

Hoooly shit. Do I look like nice and sweet?

[For a second, Kavinsky is dangerously close to being unsettled. He's always been adept at hounding people, but he's no good with other predators he can't dominant with a word, a look, a few waved stacks of cash. The ones that pose a threat need to have their throats slit and their bodies dumped in the river--mostly metaphorically. If they can't play nice, they don't get to play at all.

He might have miscalculated a couple things about El.

No, no, no, he hasn't, they're fine. This is what he knew would happen. The man's hard up, that's all. He wants his side of the bargain, that's all. It's other minds in the Hive teaching Kavinsky how to internalize stress and second-guess himself. He doesn't need that.

The conversation snaps Kavinsky back into the right mode. He lifts a hand and graces Elliot with a casual raise of his middle finger.]

Don't be a little bitch.

You look like someone who wants his dick sucked.

[ Wants being the operative word.

Elliot leans forward and rests his chin on the top of one of Kavinsky's denim-clad thighs, his grey-blue bug eyes gone huge and dark as he looks up through long lashes, his mouth already surprisingly red. The smolder is paired with a hand pressed indelicately into Kavinsky's lap. Going for fastenings and zip, shamelessly exploring. ]

I hope everyone in your head likes gay porn.

[He shouldn't have said that to him.

Suck my dick.

What asshole taught him shame? He knows the name without having to think more than a split second, so he builds a cement wall between himself and her. If she wanted him, she should have said the right words. She'd be on her knees instead of the druggie with the beautiful eyes.

Kavinsky looks down at him with his own hooded eyes, deep circles beneath despite his tendency to get in more than his fair share of sleep. Must be the drugs, or the incessant pounding of other people's problems wanting to infect him via the symbiote.]

Hey, don't drag me down with you.

[He gives up on flipping Elliot off, letting his arms both droop off to his sides, hanging low enough his fingertips nearly scrape the floor. He's being lazy with him now, half laying down in his seat. He won't help him open up his pants.

Work for it.]

You're the fag on your knees.

[He turns his face away, limp, but no longer looking at that red, red mouth.]

I feel teeth, I break them.

[ For his part, Mr Robot is a sight better than Elliot than keeping people out of his head. Maybe no-one will notice, and tomorrow Elliot can live on in blissful ignorance of exactly where his mouth's been.

Today, though. ]

You could try.

[ But the sharpness of Kavinsky's words is muffled, now. Fading into the background like someone's turned down the volume knob, and all his posturing and threats become ineffective, and all there is is a head rushing static, a tinnitus ring in his ears, the sound of his own steady pulse as he works open whatever remnants of alien disguise Kavinsky is wearing.

An absolute silence, as he takes out Kavinsky's dick, cups it delicately in his hand.

What he's after, here, is more complicated than a junkie's need for drugs, just like Kavinsky probably asked for this for a more complicated reason than the need for contact but it's still mutually assured addiction. Also: he lacks the capacity for empathy right now. So there's nothing gentle about the way he settles in, nothing sweet about the sudden warm wetness of his enclosing mouth. ]

[Not his first blowjob. Not his first blowjob, even, when the other person was only doing it because Kavinsky could give them something else--what they really desired. Kavinsky's not the object people seek to possess, after all, because it's impossible to keep a gasoline fire contained between two palms. They want the drugs, the cars, the shake of the earth after an explosion. They want their nostrils to singe with the scent of it all, or that might be all the coke they snorted.

Kavinsky's been wondering, more often than he used to, what it is he actually wants. The problem with sharing a Hivemind with some real goal-oriented, type A jackoffs. They don't want him folding up inside his pleasure.

He knows how to use a gun as long as he dreams it. What more can they ask for?]

There is no try.

[Kavinsky quotes, distantly, then snickers at himself, then abruptly stops snickering because his dick has been pulled out. The moment of truth, because, because, because he shouldn't be asking some guy he barely fucking knows to be slurping down his cock, but the command's been issued. He also can't take it back.

And then he's inside, and a mouth is a mouth. If he shut his eyes, he could pretend it was any number of his one week girlfriends, but it's this guy. Elliot. And Kavinsky's eyelids sink down, but he's watching.]

How many times you've done this before?

[Still can't shut his mouth, though.]

[ Elliot doesn't answer. Though it's not never, that much is gleanable from his actions if not the glassy lake surface of his mind right now. And there's a little of his broodmate's experience tangled up in his own, and a little of Kavinsky's naked desire for it, and does it matter right now? Does anything matter except the way his lips are soft and the inside of his mouth is slick?

The taste is nothing but salt and skin but the stretch of his jaw, the weight over his tongue, the clench of nausea when his gag reflex hasn't even been tapped yet, these are the visceral sensory experiences that feel unique. He adds an ungentle hand, broad palm squeezing, while he acclimates himself — but once he does, he looks up. Demands eye contact and holds it, not to be smoulder-sexy but to pin Kavinsky right here, in this moment. His weird bug blue-grey eyes have no flinch in them, no soul, as he starts to move with slick wet sounds, unmistakable in the quiet of the room. ]

[Kavinsky didn't ask Elliot to have a soul for him, so he shouldn't be surprised at the quality of the gaze that pins him like a butterfly, right through the sternum, right in the picture frame prepped for his display. He even squirms, for all of a breath, like a bug with a needle nearly the width of his body shoved into his chest. Then he stills, hiccups in his breathing, and figures if Elliot wants to play, they can play.

His moan's obnoxious. Loud and lurid; ready for amateur hour at the nearest porn studio, provided this planet has any equivalent. Fake at the corner and edges, with a caramel swirl of something real, because he is being blown. The wet heat isn't fake, so neither is the slim part where he wants to devour the sensation before it's gone until next time Elliot needs a hit.]

Just like that, baby.

[They both want it to be a business transaction, without too much emotion, completely devoid of dangerous attachment, but who wants it more?]

I get so horny when a guy looks like he wants to rip my dick off with his teeth, but real quick--you cool with some critique?

[ He doesn't really react to the praise or to the sarcasm, just works steadily at his self-appointed task. At the question, though, he draws back, tongue flickering under the head for a moment to avoid any long strings of spit, still neat about the whole thing. Uses his hand to hold Kavinsky, takes the opportunity to rest his neck and catch his breath. ]

Go ahead, kid.

[ Neutral, because he's very good at neutrality in the face of perceived danger. Knows how much power there is in simply refusing to be effectively trolled.

He wants Kavinsky to be the one off-balance, worried that if he says or does the wrong thing this will be over. ]

[Does the poor fuck think his age gives him a headstart? If anything, it means his decrepit bones will take more time moving his foot to stamp on the gas pedal. Kavinsky's not a virgin who blows his load at the first suck and bob; if his customer was hoping to escape anytime soon, he should have demanded fairer terms.

And not have called him kid. Kavinsky's never had issues with his age, because he's never allowed it to be an obstacle between him and the prize he wished to claim. Yet. It's annoying.

He looks Elliot straight in the eye, like an arrow to it.]

More spit.

[ Elliot doesn't laugh, just makes a hm noise, like he's considering it. ]

I'll take it under advisement.

[ Dryly, ironically beaurocratic. Punctuated firmly by straight up just spitting on Kavinsky's dick. It slides for a moment, slowly, down the length, but then Elliot dips his head and wraps his lips around the shaft and chases it. ]

Gross.

[Kavinsky tells him, although the way the word twists out from between his lips, it might have been gorgeous. He wishes he had a cigarette right about now, but he recently smoked his last and hasn't taken the necessary nap to fix the matter. This time, he lets his head fall back and fights against the physical desire to fuck up into Elliot's mouth. That would read too much like interests, and it's his desire to fake impartiality.

He's close, though, balls getting tight, eyelids fluttering.

If it was only K in his head, he wouldn't ask, but too many sweethearts mucking up his gears. So.]

You wanna swallow or not?

( Pass, thanks. )

[ He's only really spoken aloud before — but on this occasion he can feel the way Kavinsky is heading to the edge and doesn't want to interrupt that by taking his mouth off, not until the very last moment. Still, the dry voice barely sounds like Elliot; more nasal, more emphatic. Maybe it's just because he's concentrating on something else right now — namely, the best way to take as much cock as he can while getting ready for the split second when he'll need to back right off and use his hand.

When that moment comes he speaks again, Elliot's voice gone rough around the edges with abuse. ]

That's it, c'mon.

[Kavinsky's an artist. He sees something, he can recreate it. At first, it wasn't so simple, and he ended up with junk piles of sugar pills or hundred dollar bills that gave Mr. Franklin a mustache and a less than stolid expression. Then, one day, it clicked, and he was a young god, ready to raise a medium amount of Hell--just enough for Goldilocks to get her rocks off.

So he notices things. Small changes. The voice in his head being a mental meter away from the one that told him he'd take it 'under advisement.' He notices, but since he's so close to coming, he files it away under a stack of more pressing thoughts, all of which devolve into yes.

C'mon.

He comes on. Specifically, on Elliot's hand, his expression unguarded for a moment. It doesn't make him look younger or more innocent, but free, like someone went and unlocked his shackles just long enough for him to spill over. His thighs twitch, and he's practically on his back on the chair, slithered down so low, eyelids left at a halfmast while the post-coital bliss washes over him.

He doesn't say anything.

He looks away.

Realizes how that comes off.

Looks back at Elliot.]

[ Elliot is still watching him right back, hand gentling him through the last of his warm bliss. A little more and he lets go completely, sits back, then stands. There's come on his hand — he finds something to wipe it on that isn't his robes. It's cold, though, clinical, like a doctor rinsing off blood after a surgery. ]

You did great.

[ Shouldn't that compliment be the other way around? But he doesn't really leave time for reciprocation, gets straight to the point: ]

So, how long do you need to make the drugs?

Twenty. Thirty.

[Kavinsky sighs a hum through his nose.

Making the drugs won't be hard, but dream time passes like a street cat meanders: however it sees fit. When Kavinsky's stealing something small, like a bottle full of non-prescription pills, he can guesstimate he won't need more than a half hour. Cars can take anything from less than that to a few hours of pulling, prying, molding, dreaming.

He reaches down to adjust himself, closes up his trousers.]

Fuck off for a while.

[He dismisses Elliot before that can be flipped around on him, too.]

Fine. See ya, kid.

[ He doesn't seem particularly bothered about the little princeling just ordering him away, though he does pause in the doorway, thoughtful. Turns back. ]

But don't try to stiff me, no pun intended. I'm not somebody you want as an enemy.

[His eyes shut up until he's given that last, final line. The age old split-second threat, the kind that would have been better off unspoken, but Elliot must not know his audience.

Kavinsky's eyes open to slits, serpentine, fighting against an invisible, blistering sun.]

Scary.

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you're my blood sport. (closed)

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