paradisalogs | You have set something in motion...

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You have set something in motion...

Who: Vicious and Gren
What: Vicious is bored, but knows just how to fix that.
When: Evening, backdated to before a certain car heist.
Where: Starting at the bar Gren works at in town, moving on from there.
Rating: Definitely R, at least. Adults doing Adult things.

He'd come into the bar a few hours before closing, making sure to let Gren see him before taking a table to himself back away from both the crowd, and his old comrade, ordering a succession of drinks from one of the hostesses instead. To everyone in the bar, he gave the air of someone who simply wanted to be left alone to drink in solace. But he knew that Gren knew he was there, and that was all that mattered.

He finished his last drink as the place began closing up for the night, then stepped outside to wait. In years past, he might have lit a cigarette, perhaps even leaned back against the building while he waited, but now he simply stood there, hands in his pockets, ignoring the chill to the air. He was certain he wouldn't be kept waiting long.

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He laughed quietly and followed as Gren lay back on the bed, leaning over him, propped up on one hand as the other slipped back down Gren's side, a smile that was more feral than it was amused appearing on his face as he traced his fingers along newly bared skin, following the contours of his hipbone before diverting his attention elsewhere, his touch almost feather-light at first, teasing, before finally relenting and stroking him fully.

Gren let out a quiet whimper in the back of his throat at the light touch, though it was the intense look on his comrade's face that made his breath catch more than anything. He'd seen it only in the heat of battle, previously, that slightly manic rictus that told everyone watching that he was in complete mastery of the situation. It was both infectious and, in a word, insanely attractive. Maybe he'd always been crazy, and prison had only helped him realize it. Sanity was overrated, anyway.

"Ah. Vicious..." he said, voice rough. He squirmed a little, kicking the last of the fabric free with a need to give himself more leverage, but he made no other move besides the reflexive rolling of his hips into the other man's grip. This was what he'd wanted - to be more or less at Vicious' mercy. To give up control along with fear and uncertainty to a man who wielded it with precision.

"...please."

He took that as a cue to continue for awhile, almost precise in his actions, thumb callused from wielding his katana stroking over the head of Gren's erection. He settled his weight over him a little more, teeth grazing along his collar bone and up along the column of his throat until his mouth was poised just near the shell of his ear.

"Do you want me?"

The words were barely more than a whisper, but the tone was weighted with an almost arrogant amusement, goading him for a reaction.

It was getting harder and harder to keep himself composed in this situation. The longer Vicious' hand moved the more he writhed and panted and curled fingers into the sheets. Holding himself to his comrade's ideal of poise difficult to do under the best of circumstances.

The second Vicious spoke he gasped and opened eyes that had at some point drifted closed. The soft of his voice alone, so deep and close, seemed to hit a nerve more than any touch could ever have done, if the jerk in his hips was anything to go by. It didn't even matter that he could hear the slight note of mockery. At this point he would have given the man nearly anything.

"Always," he gasped, which wasn't exactly in response to the question asked but probably answered it nonetheless. He slipped an arm around Vicious' back and pressed closer, abandoning composure at last.

He answered that with teeth on Gren's neck, not hard enough to cause true pain, but likely to leave a mark, and smiled against his skin. He had forgotten what this was like, to have someone bared to him like this, wanting and vulnerable and his. He could allow himself this indulgence.

What he needed now was likely in the room somewhere, he knew enough to know Gren had hoped for this encounter, had probably planned for it accordingly. He could go searching, but it was far easier to let the hand that had been stroking him drift away, trailing first along his inner thigh and then back along the curve of his ass, trusting Gren would get the message.

The pain was good. It was something real and rather undeniably Vicious. He'd half expected and half hoped for it really, so much so that the jolt of feeling makes him gasp and arch as much as the idea that he'd be carrying proof of this on his body afterwards. His fingers clawed a little at the other man's back, leaving slight marks of his own, though not with the same intention.

Lost as he is in that feeling of being owned, it takes him a moment to register where Vicious' hand had wandered, though not nearly as long to interpret the meaning.

"Nnnnnn," he starts, summoning up the ability to form proper words with some difficulty. He had, in fact, been taken by a bout of wishful thinking shortly after that kiss at Christmas and bought the necessary lubricant in town - and used it too, in the intervening weeks. He'd lay back on this very bed and touched himself, letting his mind imagine this scenario, teasing and stroking and fingering as much to keep himself from going insane as to prove to himself that he could. Until recently his body had not quite responded correctly to such things, if at all, proving that the influence of the drugs on his system had for some reason faded. And it had been a very long time. Just as well. He was suddenly thankful for the practice.

"Table. Top drawer. There," he managed, reaching towards the head of the bed in a vague fashion and figuring Vicious at least was coherent enough to get the message. Too late he remembered that the torn photo the castle had given him last year - at the time a cruel reminder rather than something to cherish - was sitting on top of the table in plain view. It was dark enough he could hope Vicious would miss it, though he had other concerns. Namely, hoping the man would hurry up.

Edited 2013-03-08 07:35 (UTC)

He smirked a little at both the lack of composure and how accurate his own suspicions had been. He stopped long enough to leave another sharp nip along a collar bone before he moved away to retrieve what he needed.

His eyes caught sight of the photo, though at first, in the darkness, he didn't recognize it for what it was. Just a snapshot, torn and faded. It was only as he took the time to find what he was looking for in the drawer that he recognized the landscape, what there was of it. He hadn't even realized such a photo existed, had no feeling he could associate it, aside from the unwelcome reminder of Titan and all that had surrounded it.

He closed the drawer and moved away again. He didn't need nostalgia, not when he had the present, a willing victim laid out for him, pliant and wanting. He settled himself above Gren again, slicked fingers sliding back to find their mark while he caught the other man's mouth with his again in a crushing kiss.

Titan had been in the past, true, but it was too much a part of who he was to let it go. That Vicious was a part of that played into that, but it was more than just his attraction to one man. It was that feeling of belonging to something more than himself.

The army had rejected him, of course, but he was starting to find that again here, with the man that had caused him to be cast out in the first place. The irony of that is distant to him. He only cares about what is happening right at this moment.

He latched onto Vicious as soon as his weight settled back over him, arms looped over the sharp lines of his shoulders. Only a soft, muffled moan could be heard as he pressed back accepting both the kiss and the subtle intrusion of fingers. He lifted one leg high and hooked a heel against the back of a thigh, baring and opening himself even further to that touch.

Vicious let himself be drawn in, all hard lines and sharp edges, though not quite yielding because there was nothing in him that could still bend for another. Nor was he particularly gentle about his task, though he didn't think Gren wanted, or needed, such considerations. A man who would gasp with pleasure under his teeth didn't require such things.

Gren was yielding, was soft curves where he was sharp, out of place, perhaps, but not unwelcome, and he occupied himself with learning that unique terrain with teeth and fingertips until he was ready, pulling away only slick himself and reposition, a hand locked on Gren's hip as he finally pressed forward.

Gren's world narrows for a few minutes. At first it's largely on the slick almost painful movement of questing fingers, but expands to those other wandering touches. They take him by surprise. It's not affection or real gentleness - such things are below a man of his mien and would be entirely contrary to what draws Gren to him - but they're not exactly necessary to the fulfillment of his pleasure and therefore oddly considerate. The only time hands had been laid on his body since Titan were cruel and cold - seeing him only as an oddity. A shape for their amusement and pleasure. The goal here is maybe the same but the difference is that it's Gren that Vicious is touching, not just a body. For the first time in years he feels wanted. Maybe he could be ok with what he'd become.

A break in contact and Gren knows it's coming. He forces himself to watch. He needs this memory as much as he needs it physically. He's trembling a little, but it's hard to tell if it's the chill in the weather, nerves, or excitement, but he doesn't beg with anything more than eyes. He just braces, hands in the sheets, and shifts. A harsh whimper escapes as he's pierced, hips rocking back, both legs lifted and locked behind Vicious to draw them ever closer together. It is pain this time, but far distant to everything else.

He makes a noise low in his throat as he thrusts forward, losing himself for a moment in the purely visceral sensations this sort of intimacy brings. It's a powerful thing, intoxicating in its on way, and maybe that makes it dangerous. He'd let himself be trapped once before, after all. Not by sex itself, of course, but by the complicated interplay that such a thing evokes, and which even he is not completely immune to.

He'd found other replacements, of course, first in the constant adrenaline surge of Titan, and later in the release the Red Eye could give him, but now he's come full circle. There's nothing left for him to lose anymore, so maybe that's fitting.

It's a consideration for a later time, however, as he gives himself over purely to instinct. Even this level of closeness can't erase all the violence in him. It's too ingrained. It's in his blood. So questing hands grip tight and his teeth find skin again, as if he were some starving animal. As if Gren were the only thing offering him salvation.

The line between giving and taking blurs at times like this. There is little else he can do, under that level of casual brutality, besides give in to it. He was happy to be whatever it was that Vicious needed - even at times the things he did not acknowledge. Gren figured that Vicious denied the need for concepts like friendship and love because he'd never truly been offered the same in return without some kind of condition. For the moment, however, those concerns take a backseat to more basic desires, and Vicious' need to inflict pain dovetails nicely with his need to feel it. Perhaps they'd both been numb for far too long.

As vocal as he is, it takes a few minutes for Gren to remember his tongue. What is at first moans mixed with slight pained cries turn rather quickly into inarticulate mumbling intermixed with Vicious' name, said with nearly every connotation possible: praise and plea, curse and exaltation, adoration and demand - the last accompanied by a growl of "harder..." as his own fingers dug into silver hair. Anything to make sure this was real; to be able to wake up in the morning and separate it at last from the figments of his imagination.

He hardly needs that command to comply with it, though the hands in his hair ground him a little, an immediate reminder of where he is, and with who, when he might have otherwise been lost completely in his own head.

He doesn't need that distance, here. Gren is as receptive to his violence as he might have guessed at, and he is all to happy to comply. He leaves a hard bite at the juncture of his neck and shoulder before taking a brief moment to reposition for better leverage, giving him exactly what he asked for. He says nothing, himself, no half-muttered name or instructions in kind, just the occasional rasp of breath as though he aims to completely exhaust himself in this endeavor.

There isn't much he can do now beyond brace himself and allow Vicious' momentum to carry both of them through; one palm flat up against the rough wood of the headboard to keep anchored, the other making a fist in the sheets.

Gren had felt, even before the terms had changed, that something about the two of them fit, and this moment only proved it to him. Or he was being overly sentimental. It settled rather heavily on his chest and made it hard to breathe.

It didn't take long after that - a sudden crash of feeling like thunder after a silence filled only by their breathing and the near-alarming squeaking of the bed he should probably replace if this was going to be a habit. His voice is much soften than it's been so far; a high keening whimper deep in his throat as he tenses with release. He's overcome by a sudden need to reach up and touch, but can't find the strength to do it when it feels like everything in him is shattering.

It's not often he's overwhelmed by anything--even situations meant to take him out of the tedium of everyday life are carefully constructed--and he rarely enjoys the experience. This is different, perhaps because it's fleeting, perhaps because it's still familiar despite how long it's been since he's been in this situation, perhaps simply because as far gone as he is now, he knows that Gren is no better, that no one has the upper hand.

He finishes with something close to a growl, the most noise he's made in some time now, and takes a moment to catch his breath, to take in the sight of Gren beneath him, so completely undone.

There is a lapse of a few moments as his limbs relax, his own chest heaving in time with Vicious'. His eyes open to stare upward, slightly unfocused and filled with a bare emotion that's hard to name but looks a lot like worship, half hidden as they are under tousled blue-black hair. He reaches up to wipe away the tears tickling at the side of his face, though he can't remember having started crying in the first place, and something about it makes him let out a soft but slightly giddy chuckle. Maybe it's just that, in the end, something he'd been so afraid to do had been so simple. He really should have known that. Vicious was epitome of straightforward.

There isn't anything he can say right now that will matter, and he settles for smiling crookedly as he slides a hand up to his comrades' bicep to linger, encouraging him to come closer but not insisting on it just yet. He's happy to allow the moment to stretch.

That level of sentiment is only going to lead to trouble in the long run, for both of them. Vicious enjoys seeing it too much not to abuse it, eventually. But not tonight. Tonight he simply basks in it until his breathing evens out and he pulls away, although the bed is too small for him to go very far. He might get up, eventually, but he's content to stay for the moment, more relaxed than he can remember being in a very long time.

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You have set something in motion...

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