you're my blood sport. (closed)

[raw]

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. ]

Comments

[100mitsubishis]

[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.

[raw]

[ 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. ]

[100mitsubishis]

[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.]

[raw]

[ 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. ]

[100mitsubishis]

[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?

[raw]

[ 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. ]

[100mitsubishis]

[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.

[raw]

[ 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. ]

[100mitsubishis]

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?

[raw]

( 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.

[100mitsubishis]

[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.]

[raw]

[ 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?

[100mitsubishis]

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.]

[raw]

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.

[100mitsubishis]

[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.