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Entry tags:
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. ]
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. ]
no subject
[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?]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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?
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
[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.]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
Kavinsky's eyes open to slits, serpentine, fighting against an invisible, blistering sun.]
Scary.