Anything ragged or rotten or rusty Yes, I love trash!

[47redbirds]

His fish tank is moving.

More specifically, his fish in the fish tank are moving. Talking. There's a puffer fish that Mike swears is fucking beat boxing, and he's sitting in the middle of his cramped trailer, right on the floor as he watches his tank.

He doesn't have a tank--it's his kitchen sink, for once devoid of any dishes. There's no tank and there's no puffer fish and it's not even filled with water, but Mike sees beyond that. He sees the certain truth that many people don't find. The difference between reality and what's fake and everything that's in between. He swears the fish are just from another universe. Another dimension, transposed here and Mike is the only one who can see them. The only one who knows who and what they are.

He's also on a lot more than Oxy today.

His dealer had provided him a lot of goods today. Out of respect, he says, for keeping the marshals out of his hair. Mike just pointed them the other direction so he'd still get his fix, it was as simple as that. The world isn't about who's nice and who does things from the kindness of their hearts and who doesn't. The world is about who's left with what they want.

Mike? Mike has everything he wants right now. Even if he's on the floor and has been for nearly two hours, staring at an empty sink he can't really see, convinced that he's just opened a new doorway to another world. That he can see the truth.

He hears the knocking, knows it can only be Tim. He doesn't get up to open the door--instead, with a surprising amount of grace, he throws the keys out the window for Tim to pick up. He can't look back, not now. He can't look away.

The RV is in a slightly better state than usual, at least--relatively clean, although Mike's hair is still long and unkempt. There's a pipe and a pill bottle on the kitchenette's table, and a few dimebags of his usual weed. There's also small dime bags of tablets, too: a regular smorgasbord.

Mike says nothing as he hears the door open. He smiles.

Comments

[comfortablyerect]

No-- he is going to give in that easily. Because when Mike pushes, he pushes hard and unrelenting, doesn't hold back or slow down, and it's not something Tim is able to resist. It never has been. He has all the patience in the world, but it all seems to run out within seconds when he's faced with Mike. And that challenging look saps up the rest of it immediately.

Not the mention the fingers around his cock feel amazing. They're too hard to ignore.

So he gives in. And that's fine. Giving into sex is different from giving into drug use. One isn't necessarily going to lead to the other. He's horny, not weak.

In one swift, graceful motion, he turns Mike around, shoves him up against the wall again, but doesn't let go of his wrist or his neck. His fingers stay pressing against Mike's throat and he twists the other's arm behind his back, threatening to pop it out of place as he presses forward, grinding his hips against Mike's ass.

"Last I check," he says, voice low in the other's ear. "This is a skill I'm not lackin'."

[47redbirds]

He nearly topples and it's the hand moving his wrist to his back, his shoudler blade already feeling like it's on fire, that actually saves him from doing so.

The hand on his throat, constricting, the pain in his shoulders, pressing up, and that dick hard against Mike's ass is one hell of a sign. So are those words, hissed in his ear, and his dick grinds against the wall of his shitty place.

One hand moves to steady himself on the wall, already breathing heavily thanks to Tim, and after that it moves behind him and he grabs at Tim's hair as hard as he can.

"I've had plenty better fucks than you," he challenges.

It's a lie.

"Without this you can barely get it up."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim groans, involuntary and low in his throat, because the fingers in his hair are almost better than the hand on his cock was. Not as good as teeth on his throat, but pretty damn close.

He already knows Mike's full a shit, just lying between his teeth. He knows it's just a challenge, just a way to get Tim to be rougher and harsher. Logically, he knows all of that, but it doesn't seem to make a difference. Because it works, and Tim practically snarls when he lets go of Mike's wrist to undo the other's pants.

"Like the way you can't get it up unless there's a hand around your throat?" His fingers squeeze around Mike's neck briefly for emphasis. "Can't get off unless you can barely breathe?"

His hand shoves past Mike's underwear, fingers curling around his cock firmly and stroking slow.

"Like that's not fucked up."

[47redbirds]

Mike knows it's fucked up. He's well aware he's fucked up, too, but Tim presses on something verbally that causes Mike to go from goading him to letting out a low, warning noise in his throat that sounds an awful lot like a growl.

He can get off, of course. It's just harder--but with Tim, it's always hotter and faster and angrier. Rougher and now that those hands have found his dick, Mike can't help the long, drawn out moan.

No. He has to fight, has to find some way to show Tim he hasn't won, that Mike is now just as angry and pissed off as him, even if his cock is erect and sensitive and Mike is all too aware of his air.

"I'm the only one who will ever do this with you," He challenges. Takes his free hand and grabs at Tim's hand around his throat--he wants to move. Preferably to the bed.

"You love it just as much as I do, you sick fuck. Probably jerk off at your kill count."

[comfortablyerect]

Playing with Mike is like playing with a fucking rattlesnake. Poking it with a stick and jumping back when it lunges, until it moves just a little too quick and sinks its teeth in.

Of course, Mike fights back, and he plays to win. He knows the source of Tim's nightmares and uses it against him. His hand moves from Mike's cock to his wrist again, yanking it back behind his back, further and harder than the last time. Not hard enough to dislocate it, but hard enough to strain it further, put a little more pressure on it. He knows exactly how hard he needs to pull to snap it out of place, and the weight he puts on it is carefully controlled.

He doesn't plan on doing it, but he can. He knows how. And that's the reminder he gives as he tugs on it a little harder. He's capable of destroying Mike, and this is just a warning.

"Don't think I won't turn you into another number to jerk off to."

It's an empty threat, and a lie to boot, but he doesn't care. It sounds real enough with the rough edge to his voice and the fingers tight around Mike's wrist.

He yanks the other away from the wall, pushes him roughly towards the bedroom without letting him go.

[47redbirds]

He hisses, pained as the hand moves from his dick to his wrist again and he's about to say something, about to fight again but Tim presses a little bit more back and Mike has to shut his eyes through the pain it sends up and down his arm. Even on pain killers he can sense it, numb and rough. More things that will hurt and bruise.

More things to soothe with Oxycontin.

"Either way," He laughs, and it's scornful and mocking even as he's shoved to the small, cramped bedroom, "You're going to be thinking of me."

He knows Tim would get just as riled up if Mike points out that his balancing act between being a CI and an actual criminal means he can fuck Tim back in every possible way, but he doesn't say that. Instead, he stumbles and tries to twist himself around, stopping and wincing only because of his arm.

"I didn't know you cared, sweetheart."

[comfortablyerect]

This is a bad idea. He knows it is, even as she shoves Mike to the bedroom, his thumb pressing slightly against the pulse thumping hard in the other's throat. He should back off, leave Mike to get himself off and go find somebody harmless and pretty to fuck. Instead of the guy who got him hooked on oxycontin and fucked up his life.

But it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be as hot or intense or rough. He can fuck Mike without worrying about hurting him because he doesn't care. He can't do that to somebody else. He can't work his anger out on somebody else.

So it's this. It's this and then he's gone. And next time he comes back, it'll be for work, and he won't have any anger to work out, and it'll be a normal cop-CI interaction. There won't be drugs and there won't be sex. There will be information exchanged and that's it. This is the last fucking time.

He shoves Mike face first down onto the bed, lets go of his arm to flip him over onto his back.

"Shut the fuck up," he snaps, yanking Mike's pants down just enough to bare his ass. And just to make sure Mike stays quiet, he puts a hand on his throat again and leans in to kiss him roughly.

[47redbirds]

"Fuck you," Mike snaps, and it's about just as much as he can say. He's flipped from his back to his stomach in a matter of seconds and he finds even if he wanted to not comply, he wouldn't be able to.

There will never be a last time, he thinks, because not only can Mike take everything Tim gives him, he can dish it out twice as bad. They're doomed to claw at each other's throats until one of them dies.

The rough kiss is responded in kind--Mike bites down on Tim's lip, hard, and while he can't speak he can definitely moan appreciatively. It's that hand on his throat, that fucking pressure that's just right.

His hips raise up, wanting. Needing, despite himself, though he's at that stage where Tim could do just about anything and it would be hot.

So he kisses back a second time, rough and wanting, and his hands move to the other's throat, pressing into the flesh and knowing damn well where he's going to mark.

[comfortablyerect]

Teeth dig into his lip hard enough to bruise and Tim groans low in his throat, fingers pressing a little harder into Mike's neck in response. He's distracted, for a moment, just by kissing back hard, being as rough and harsh as possible.

Mike's hips arch, and it's enough to bring Tim back to the real goal: fuck until he's not angry anymore. He pushes them back down with his free hand, pushing the other's legs apart to kneel between them. He doesn't bother with undressing, not with anything that's not completely necessary. His own jeans get pushed down just enough to free his cock.

It's ignored, though, in favor of curling his fingers around Mike's dick, stroking firm and slow like he did earlier, leaning forward to murmur into the other's ear.

"No, I'm gonna fuck you. And I'm gonna keep my hand around your neck just like this--" He presses his palm harder against Mike's throat. "-- until you come so hard all you can do is moan."