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handful_ofdustDrive-by middle section, on my way back out the door...
Lackadiasy Nostalgiac, Part Two
Fandom: Lackadaisy
Viktor Vasko/Mordecai Heller
Atlas never did talk to Mordecai, that Viktor could confirm—though grantedly, exactly how Viktor would have known if he did he wasn't quite sure, unless he'd actually been there at the time. But things went on, nevertheless; they continued their explorations, gradually graduating from hands to mouths to everything else. Typically, it was most often Mordecai (the same man who, Viktor was becoming increasingly convinced, genuinely seemed to think he was invincible, even when bleeding out) brow-beating Viktor to go further, rather than the other way around; bastard could always twitch Viktor's reins from any position, whether above or below.
“You don't vant that,” he told him, when Mordecai first suggested it. “It is...messy. And it vill hurt.”
“Everything's messy—and as for the other, so? You think, I can't take it?”
“What? Listen, you...fuck is not dare, Mordecai, God damn! Fuck is fuck, only.”
“I don't know what you're trying to say, exactly. Do...you not want to? Is that it?”
“...no, I do.”
“Well, then.”
What he'd really wanted to ask, of course, had been the most obvious question—the one he never would, for fear of upsetting their arrangement's already-delicate balance: Does everything have to hurt, with you? Is it that really how you like it, little man, or is simply that you're so used to struggle that if something doesn't leave a scar, you won't know if it's real?
Which might have been somewhat...judgemental on Viktor's part, especially considering just how many scars he bore. What was provable, however—had been proven, now, more times than was probably good for either of them—was that much as he acted prim as a paper saint during strict business hours, there was something inside Mordecai Heller which obviously craved to be pushed over and stroked hard, with regularity. An alleycat's instinct for pleasurable pain, in other words—some part of him that longed to struggle and howl towards climax with its claws out, marking territory and being marked, in turn.
And now that Viktor had been shown proof of that truth directly he couldn't ever unsee it, or not long to see it again: Mordecai in full disarray with his head tipped back and his neck straining, palms tight over both eyes, purple-hard cock jerking each time Viktor stirred 'round inside him—lost, undone, a tic at the corner of his mouth fluttering wildly as he tried, then failed, to suppress a growling moan. The happy ruin of a perfect mechanism, teeth grinding frighteningly, mewling out curses between grunts: Oy, azoy azoy azoy, ikh kim shoyn balt, tatenyoo ziser, vey is mir, gevalt!
It was almost worth having survived what Viktor already had to be so joyfully surprised by something, right when he'd been on the verge of resigning himself to dour middle age: Staré, ako svojho času; old before his time. Not so long since he'd been back on the farm, young and stupid enough to think America meant freedom, and politicians meant what they said. Not so long since he'd been able look at whatever was in front of him and see it twice, once for each eye.
Even upright and with all his clothes back on, though, Mordecai never seemed to have any idea how he looked to other people when he didn't have a gun in his hands—how exotically interesting his very apparent lack of interest in anything but the entirely practical could be. That woman in the train station; Mitzi May, still, whenever she'd made sure Atlas was looking elsewhere. Or Viktor, cocking his head to study Mordecai's high-nosed profile in the car—more often than was safe, considering he had no depth perception left to drive with—and wondering just what the hell went on in there, what odd, contortive patterns of thought, to produce the conversations they kept on having.
This dapper, unsentimental little man with that bright green screwdriver gaze of his, made to take things apart under pressure. And probably not so “little”, really, when stood next to anyone besides Viktor, given how he hit a nice midpoint somewhere between Viktor's chest and the true tininess of Ivy or Mitzi—but there was still a broad streak of child running through Mordecai, even now: His inability to compromise, his insistence on having things his way, or no way at all. His bedrock certainty that he would, eventually, be betrayed, let down, even by those he cared for...
(or most especially by them, perhaps)
What Viktor would give to have never delivered on that last promise, even inadvertantly. But then again, thinking it over, he suspected Mordecai would always have found a way to rationalize leaving him behind, one way or another.
“Next time,” Viktor told him, afterwards, “ve go slower, spend more time, ehhh...build up to it. Use someting more than spit, too.”
“I was fine.”
“Yes, yes—you the toughest Jew in St. Louis, and ve all know it. But 'til you more used to, ve go slow, or ve damn vell stop.”
Viktor felt Mordecai hiss, mutinous and muffled, into the side of his neck. Then maintain, after a long pause: “Well, we're not going to stop...”
...good.
Confirmation both of them had been looking for, apparently, though neither of them had wanted to give it. And for all Viktor felt as though he had tricked Mordecai into admitting it, he didn't feel too bad, considering the result.
Later, brushing Mordecai's complaints aside—“Oh, really...Now, there is no way that is sanitary. No, don't stop, don't...Excuse me, kissing, after that? Wash your mouth out!”—Viktor would still manage to thrust his dirtied tongue deep into him anyways, taking him unawares and from an angle, reeking of vodka and semen. Thinking: This is YOU I taste of, little bitch—your cock, your ass, your blood. And I don't care a damn what you think of me for wanting to put my mouth on you everywhere I see fit, treat you as though you're worth the worship; holy, one of God's creatures, not...whatever it is that you think you are.
But: Don't be idiot enough to say love out loud, fool, his battle-trained gut told him, whatever else you do—not here, not now. Not to this one...
(Not yet)
And: “Ugh!” Mordecai spat, the minute he released him. “Do you ever listen? Just do your business, behaimeh, and get off of me.”
A snort: “My business? Mine, only?” Viktor leant in again, hard, and bore down 'til Mordecai gave way, gasping. “You are ungrateful. Don't know how to appreciate. But I forgive, 'cause you don't know better.”
“That's—ah!—very big of you.”
“I am big man, yah. Maybe you notice.”
“Uhhhh. And...maybe not so much, if you think you have to tell me about it, given...”
So sarcastic, bright and oh so bitter, his smart mouth full of things Viktor didn't care to hear right then—and didn't have to, either. Not if he simply chose to ignore him and keep on with what he was already doing, 'til both of them were too breathless to even be able to talk, anymore.
“Milujem ťa, ty hlupák,” Viktor even dared to rumble in his ear as they lay there entwined, trusting that lack of translation might muddy the waters a little, at least enough to save face. But some things maybe sounded the same in every language, he supposed. Because—
“Really, Viktor, I didn't know you were such a romantic,” was all Mordecai sneered in reply, rolling his great green eyes. And turned his face away.
(To Be Continued)
Lackadiasy Nostalgiac, Part Two
Fandom: Lackadaisy
Viktor Vasko/Mordecai Heller
Atlas never did talk to Mordecai, that Viktor could confirm—though grantedly, exactly how Viktor would have known if he did he wasn't quite sure, unless he'd actually been there at the time. But things went on, nevertheless; they continued their explorations, gradually graduating from hands to mouths to everything else. Typically, it was most often Mordecai (the same man who, Viktor was becoming increasingly convinced, genuinely seemed to think he was invincible, even when bleeding out) brow-beating Viktor to go further, rather than the other way around; bastard could always twitch Viktor's reins from any position, whether above or below.
“You don't vant that,” he told him, when Mordecai first suggested it. “It is...messy. And it vill hurt.”
“Everything's messy—and as for the other, so? You think, I can't take it?”
“What? Listen, you...fuck is not dare, Mordecai, God damn! Fuck is fuck, only.”
“I don't know what you're trying to say, exactly. Do...you not want to? Is that it?”
“...no, I do.”
“Well, then.”
What he'd really wanted to ask, of course, had been the most obvious question—the one he never would, for fear of upsetting their arrangement's already-delicate balance: Does everything have to hurt, with you? Is it that really how you like it, little man, or is simply that you're so used to struggle that if something doesn't leave a scar, you won't know if it's real?
Which might have been somewhat...judgemental on Viktor's part, especially considering just how many scars he bore. What was provable, however—had been proven, now, more times than was probably good for either of them—was that much as he acted prim as a paper saint during strict business hours, there was something inside Mordecai Heller which obviously craved to be pushed over and stroked hard, with regularity. An alleycat's instinct for pleasurable pain, in other words—some part of him that longed to struggle and howl towards climax with its claws out, marking territory and being marked, in turn.
And now that Viktor had been shown proof of that truth directly he couldn't ever unsee it, or not long to see it again: Mordecai in full disarray with his head tipped back and his neck straining, palms tight over both eyes, purple-hard cock jerking each time Viktor stirred 'round inside him—lost, undone, a tic at the corner of his mouth fluttering wildly as he tried, then failed, to suppress a growling moan. The happy ruin of a perfect mechanism, teeth grinding frighteningly, mewling out curses between grunts: Oy, azoy azoy azoy, ikh kim shoyn balt, tatenyoo ziser, vey is mir, gevalt!
It was almost worth having survived what Viktor already had to be so joyfully surprised by something, right when he'd been on the verge of resigning himself to dour middle age: Staré, ako svojho času; old before his time. Not so long since he'd been back on the farm, young and stupid enough to think America meant freedom, and politicians meant what they said. Not so long since he'd been able look at whatever was in front of him and see it twice, once for each eye.
Even upright and with all his clothes back on, though, Mordecai never seemed to have any idea how he looked to other people when he didn't have a gun in his hands—how exotically interesting his very apparent lack of interest in anything but the entirely practical could be. That woman in the train station; Mitzi May, still, whenever she'd made sure Atlas was looking elsewhere. Or Viktor, cocking his head to study Mordecai's high-nosed profile in the car—more often than was safe, considering he had no depth perception left to drive with—and wondering just what the hell went on in there, what odd, contortive patterns of thought, to produce the conversations they kept on having.
This dapper, unsentimental little man with that bright green screwdriver gaze of his, made to take things apart under pressure. And probably not so “little”, really, when stood next to anyone besides Viktor, given how he hit a nice midpoint somewhere between Viktor's chest and the true tininess of Ivy or Mitzi—but there was still a broad streak of child running through Mordecai, even now: His inability to compromise, his insistence on having things his way, or no way at all. His bedrock certainty that he would, eventually, be betrayed, let down, even by those he cared for...
(or most especially by them, perhaps)
What Viktor would give to have never delivered on that last promise, even inadvertantly. But then again, thinking it over, he suspected Mordecai would always have found a way to rationalize leaving him behind, one way or another.
“Next time,” Viktor told him, afterwards, “ve go slower, spend more time, ehhh...build up to it. Use someting more than spit, too.”
“I was fine.”
“Yes, yes—you the toughest Jew in St. Louis, and ve all know it. But 'til you more used to, ve go slow, or ve damn vell stop.”
Viktor felt Mordecai hiss, mutinous and muffled, into the side of his neck. Then maintain, after a long pause: “Well, we're not going to stop...”
...good.
Confirmation both of them had been looking for, apparently, though neither of them had wanted to give it. And for all Viktor felt as though he had tricked Mordecai into admitting it, he didn't feel too bad, considering the result.
Later, brushing Mordecai's complaints aside—“Oh, really...Now, there is no way that is sanitary. No, don't stop, don't...Excuse me, kissing, after that? Wash your mouth out!”—Viktor would still manage to thrust his dirtied tongue deep into him anyways, taking him unawares and from an angle, reeking of vodka and semen. Thinking: This is YOU I taste of, little bitch—your cock, your ass, your blood. And I don't care a damn what you think of me for wanting to put my mouth on you everywhere I see fit, treat you as though you're worth the worship; holy, one of God's creatures, not...whatever it is that you think you are.
But: Don't be idiot enough to say love out loud, fool, his battle-trained gut told him, whatever else you do—not here, not now. Not to this one...
(Not yet)
And: “Ugh!” Mordecai spat, the minute he released him. “Do you ever listen? Just do your business, behaimeh, and get off of me.”
A snort: “My business? Mine, only?” Viktor leant in again, hard, and bore down 'til Mordecai gave way, gasping. “You are ungrateful. Don't know how to appreciate. But I forgive, 'cause you don't know better.”
“That's—ah!—very big of you.”
“I am big man, yah. Maybe you notice.”
“Uhhhh. And...maybe not so much, if you think you have to tell me about it, given...”
So sarcastic, bright and oh so bitter, his smart mouth full of things Viktor didn't care to hear right then—and didn't have to, either. Not if he simply chose to ignore him and keep on with what he was already doing, 'til both of them were too breathless to even be able to talk, anymore.
“Milujem ťa, ty hlupák,” Viktor even dared to rumble in his ear as they lay there entwined, trusting that lack of translation might muddy the waters a little, at least enough to save face. But some things maybe sounded the same in every language, he supposed. Because—
“Really, Viktor, I didn't know you were such a romantic,” was all Mordecai sneered in reply, rolling his great green eyes. And turned his face away.
(To Be Continued)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 04:28 pm (UTC)I'm enjoying the verbal back and forth as much as...the other back and forth. ;)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 04:57 pm (UTC)Yeah, the back and forth is the most fun to write, with these dudes. Two completely different methods of communication.