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]

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.