![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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 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."