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47redbirdsHis 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.
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.
no subject
Date: 2015-12-24 09:05 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2015-12-24 09:32 am (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2015-12-24 09:46 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2015-12-24 10:53 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2015-12-24 08:59 pm (UTC)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."