(no subject)
Title: The Sharp Edges
Pairing: Party Poison/Show Pony, mentions of Fun Ghoul/Jet Star, alluded to Show/Dr. D
Rating: nc17
Wordcount: 1724
Summary: pre-NANANA. Party Poison wants information, Show Pony wants proof he's not a Drac.
Prompt used: secrets for hooker bingo, also written for a prompt on anon_lovefest: Party Poison and Show Pony have sex against the vending machine
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Author’s notes: inspired by this picture:
The first time Party Poison goes looking for the origin of the broadcast he finds him. Okay, that’s not true. But Better Living Industries has made Party fairly wary of the truth. It can be used, skewed to prey on people and scare them into being deadened copies of themselves. Lies are specific and meaningful, and it’s easier to sort through to the information you need from within that lie. Better a thousand bulletproof lies than a single gnawing truth.
It's not actually the first time. Party has searched for Dr. Death Defying more times than he can count. Every time the Killjoys are just killing time, he can take one of the reappropriated motorcycles and go out looking for the radio jockey. If nothing else, he wants to thank him for being the final kick start to getting him out of Battery City. Party had had thoughts of rebellion swirling for a while, but it wasn’t until he heard Dr. D speaking that he knew he had to escape, dragging his brother and two best friends with him. But Party Poison has bigger plans than just a thank you. He has messages he wants to send if he can barter for speaking time, people that he used to be as near to friends as you were allowed to be, that he knows are close to having real opinions and just need a few personalised words to finally make the choice he did.
Nor does he really find the man. He’s not exactly hiding in order to be available for finding. He’s just resting on his back, his helmet over his face to protect his eyes as he soaks up the sun. It’s not as though it’s the first time Party Poison’s seen someone besides the Killjoys. People are constantly running away, Battery City is a place that kills it’s youth. Still, the zones are much bigger than Battery City, it’s rare to see people often, and they don’t have enough resources to let people join their band of misfits. Aside from the occasional Drac or SCARECROW member -almost always Korse- the Killjoys stay away from others. He wants everyone to flee the corporate town, but that doesn’t mean he wants to expand his family.
Accordingly, he’s not really sure how to go about a polite introduction. At a loss, he just stands and looks until the man opens his eyes and sees him through the orange of his helmet visor.
“Yes?” he says causally, not even bothering to draw his weapon. He’s completely at ease, like Party couldn’t ghost him in a second. Cockiness like that is either stupid ignorance or cool self assurance. Party’s seen stupid kids zone hop on a lark and get taken out in half a dozen ways, but for some reason he’s got a feeling that this guy knows what he’s doing.
“Are you Doctor Death Defying?”
The man slinks into sitting up, spandex covered legs curled under him. “Why?”
“I want to start an alliance.” It’s not exactly the best explanation, but it’s a lie that will probably get him what he wants.
“I could lead you to him, but I’d need a show of good faith. Proof you can be trusted around him.”
Party raises his eyebrows. He’s wearing a blue jacket, he’s got a yellow blaster and red hair. He’s hardly in the grey of SCARECROW or the white of their pet Dracs. Still, if this man is friendly with Doctor Death it makes sense that he’s wanting reassurance. He knows he’d be just as suspicious if anyone wanted to see Kobra Kid or Jet Star or Fun Ghoul. “What do you have in mind? I could recreate a few of my favourite broadcasts?”
“That could be easily programmed knowledge. It’s not like they couldn’t just wipe your brain of the refrains of beauty and passion afterward.” Yeah, there’s no question that this man is a fellow music lover, one lucky enough to actually know Doctor Death Defying.
“Well, what do you want then?”
“Everyone knows Dracs have no libido. No reason to add it to the specs. Fuck me and I’ll know you’re not undercover.”
“What?”
His defiance is fierce considering his daintiness. “Show me your cock or fuck off back to Battery City.”
On one hand it’s ridiculous, and sort of demeaning to barter information for sex. On the other hand, Party Poison really wants to meet Doctor Death, and out of necessity his list of things he absolutely will not do for what the Killjoys need is short. Fingers of one hand short. Then there’s the simple fact that he’s been living in the desert a few years. Kobra’s not an option, and Ghoul and Jet are in as close to love as you can get in the situation the Killjoys exist in. Years with one’s own hand makes sex with another person -for whatever reason- sound shiny. “Great, it’s a deal.”
The man levers himself to standing, somehow graceful even while the bottom of his roller skates spin. He glides slowly backward, crooking his fingers at Party in invitation. As he walks forward the man pulls off his helmet and puts it on the pavement. Party thinks even if they were in Battery City, surrounded by plastic surgery nightmares, this man would still be prettier than the rest.
“Put your fingers in my mouth.”
“What?”
The man’s eyes roll under long lashes. “Unless you somehow have lube in your jacket pocket you need to get your fingers spitty. Fucking me dry isn’t an option.”
Party Poison does what he’s told. The man’s lips around his fingers are an obscene invitation, one Party hopes will be available for the future. If he can somehow come out of this with a radio broadcast and a fuck buddy life will be brilliant.
When the man pushes his spandex down his thighs, it’s not that surprising to see he’s not wearing underwear. Party’s pretty sure wearing them on the outside of his pants is supposed to be a statement, even if he’s not sure what that statement is. He doesn’t much care, all that matters to him at this point is the first feel of smooth skin. Party gropes the man’s ass with his left hand, the right still being used by the man’s tongue. Both actions are full of information. His ass is ridiculously firm, muscle strong like a marathon runner. He can only figure the guy spends every waking moment roller skating. At least, the moments that he’s not sucking someone off. His mouth knows exactly what it’s doing, rearing back to the first knuckle to spiral around the tip, then taking Party’s fingers deep and spreading them to lick at the web just above the third knuckle.
Another nod to the idea that he spends the whole day in skates is how amazing the lithe man’s balance is. He raises one leg and curls it around Party, using the hook of his knee to bring him closer. It leaves him standing on four tiny wheels, and he doesn’t seem phased at all. Party’s grateful for his expertise when the brunet releases his fingers, shiny and dripping with saliva. All he has to do is snake his hand between them and arch his wrist up, and he’s pressing a wet finger into the man. He doesn’t want to add the second as quickly as he does, but he figures having the saliva dry would be worse.
The man is tall, tall enough to grab for the edge of the vending machine as Party starts to fuck him. He thrashes his head back and forth when Party gets into rhythm, hair sticking to his sweaty face. Party braces himself, one palm flat on the warm metal of the vending machine, the other clenched just under the stranger’s elbow. He wouldn’t mind jerking the guy off, but it’ll have to wait. It’s all he can do to keep his own balance, flat footed and all. The last time he fucked someone it was under the haze of Better Living medication, barely able to feel himself coming, not having the first clue if his partner was and pills not letting him care. In comparison this is clear, detailed with edges sharp enough to make him bleed. The sun is beating down and burning any fog of memory away, making sure he never loses this experience inside his own chemically pickled brain. There’s hair and fabric and breath and sweat and finally, sweet God, finally, come.
Instead of taking a step back Party Poison presses in all the closer. It only takes a step to pin the man between his body and the white wall of the vending machine. The stranger takes it for the opportunity it is, leg settling on the ground but hands replacing them in keeping Party pulled near. He ruts against him, cock hard and leaking, fingers clenching in an almost spasm, until he comes on the hip of Party’s jeans. The liquid makes the grey dirt darker. It’ll dry by the time he gets back home, he’s sure of it. The air they live in sucks the moisture out of everything.
“Yeah, you can meet him. He’s inside.” As post-coitus words they’re. Well, Party doesn’t know, honestly. He can’t remember anything that was said in Battery City, or if he or the vaguely remembered partner -he doesn’t even remember a gender- said anything at all. But he suspects they should be ‘that was fun’, or ‘let’s hang out again later’.
Frankly, he likes these ones better. It means he’s won. Or at least gotten an even trade, which is so infrequent it seems like winning. Although, it’s a slight piss off to know his prey was only a few feet away the whole time. “Seriously? I could have just walked in?”
“No. I would have blasted you. It’s really a lucky thing you didn’t try. I’m a good shot.” It’s said with the same almost-boredom of their first words exchanged, the same cold arrogant confidence/idiocy. This time around Party’s betting even harder on confidence. As much as he wants to get inside and speak to his idol, he has a feeling that this man will be a good one to know.
Pairing: Party Poison/Show Pony, mentions of Fun Ghoul/Jet Star, alluded to Show/Dr. D
Rating: nc17
Wordcount: 1724
Summary: pre-NANANA. Party Poison wants information, Show Pony wants proof he's not a Drac.
Prompt used: secrets for hooker bingo, also written for a prompt on anon_lovefest: Party Poison and Show Pony have sex against the vending machine
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Author’s notes: inspired by this picture:
The first time Party Poison goes looking for the origin of the broadcast he finds him. Okay, that’s not true. But Better Living Industries has made Party fairly wary of the truth. It can be used, skewed to prey on people and scare them into being deadened copies of themselves. Lies are specific and meaningful, and it’s easier to sort through to the information you need from within that lie. Better a thousand bulletproof lies than a single gnawing truth.
It's not actually the first time. Party has searched for Dr. Death Defying more times than he can count. Every time the Killjoys are just killing time, he can take one of the reappropriated motorcycles and go out looking for the radio jockey. If nothing else, he wants to thank him for being the final kick start to getting him out of Battery City. Party had had thoughts of rebellion swirling for a while, but it wasn’t until he heard Dr. D speaking that he knew he had to escape, dragging his brother and two best friends with him. But Party Poison has bigger plans than just a thank you. He has messages he wants to send if he can barter for speaking time, people that he used to be as near to friends as you were allowed to be, that he knows are close to having real opinions and just need a few personalised words to finally make the choice he did.
Nor does he really find the man. He’s not exactly hiding in order to be available for finding. He’s just resting on his back, his helmet over his face to protect his eyes as he soaks up the sun. It’s not as though it’s the first time Party Poison’s seen someone besides the Killjoys. People are constantly running away, Battery City is a place that kills it’s youth. Still, the zones are much bigger than Battery City, it’s rare to see people often, and they don’t have enough resources to let people join their band of misfits. Aside from the occasional Drac or SCARECROW member -almost always Korse- the Killjoys stay away from others. He wants everyone to flee the corporate town, but that doesn’t mean he wants to expand his family.
Accordingly, he’s not really sure how to go about a polite introduction. At a loss, he just stands and looks until the man opens his eyes and sees him through the orange of his helmet visor.
“Yes?” he says causally, not even bothering to draw his weapon. He’s completely at ease, like Party couldn’t ghost him in a second. Cockiness like that is either stupid ignorance or cool self assurance. Party’s seen stupid kids zone hop on a lark and get taken out in half a dozen ways, but for some reason he’s got a feeling that this guy knows what he’s doing.
“Are you Doctor Death Defying?”
The man slinks into sitting up, spandex covered legs curled under him. “Why?”
“I want to start an alliance.” It’s not exactly the best explanation, but it’s a lie that will probably get him what he wants.
“I could lead you to him, but I’d need a show of good faith. Proof you can be trusted around him.”
Party raises his eyebrows. He’s wearing a blue jacket, he’s got a yellow blaster and red hair. He’s hardly in the grey of SCARECROW or the white of their pet Dracs. Still, if this man is friendly with Doctor Death it makes sense that he’s wanting reassurance. He knows he’d be just as suspicious if anyone wanted to see Kobra Kid or Jet Star or Fun Ghoul. “What do you have in mind? I could recreate a few of my favourite broadcasts?”
“That could be easily programmed knowledge. It’s not like they couldn’t just wipe your brain of the refrains of beauty and passion afterward.” Yeah, there’s no question that this man is a fellow music lover, one lucky enough to actually know Doctor Death Defying.
“Well, what do you want then?”
“Everyone knows Dracs have no libido. No reason to add it to the specs. Fuck me and I’ll know you’re not undercover.”
“What?”
His defiance is fierce considering his daintiness. “Show me your cock or fuck off back to Battery City.”
On one hand it’s ridiculous, and sort of demeaning to barter information for sex. On the other hand, Party Poison really wants to meet Doctor Death, and out of necessity his list of things he absolutely will not do for what the Killjoys need is short. Fingers of one hand short. Then there’s the simple fact that he’s been living in the desert a few years. Kobra’s not an option, and Ghoul and Jet are in as close to love as you can get in the situation the Killjoys exist in. Years with one’s own hand makes sex with another person -for whatever reason- sound shiny. “Great, it’s a deal.”
The man levers himself to standing, somehow graceful even while the bottom of his roller skates spin. He glides slowly backward, crooking his fingers at Party in invitation. As he walks forward the man pulls off his helmet and puts it on the pavement. Party thinks even if they were in Battery City, surrounded by plastic surgery nightmares, this man would still be prettier than the rest.
“Put your fingers in my mouth.”
“What?”
The man’s eyes roll under long lashes. “Unless you somehow have lube in your jacket pocket you need to get your fingers spitty. Fucking me dry isn’t an option.”
Party Poison does what he’s told. The man’s lips around his fingers are an obscene invitation, one Party hopes will be available for the future. If he can somehow come out of this with a radio broadcast and a fuck buddy life will be brilliant.
When the man pushes his spandex down his thighs, it’s not that surprising to see he’s not wearing underwear. Party’s pretty sure wearing them on the outside of his pants is supposed to be a statement, even if he’s not sure what that statement is. He doesn’t much care, all that matters to him at this point is the first feel of smooth skin. Party gropes the man’s ass with his left hand, the right still being used by the man’s tongue. Both actions are full of information. His ass is ridiculously firm, muscle strong like a marathon runner. He can only figure the guy spends every waking moment roller skating. At least, the moments that he’s not sucking someone off. His mouth knows exactly what it’s doing, rearing back to the first knuckle to spiral around the tip, then taking Party’s fingers deep and spreading them to lick at the web just above the third knuckle.
Another nod to the idea that he spends the whole day in skates is how amazing the lithe man’s balance is. He raises one leg and curls it around Party, using the hook of his knee to bring him closer. It leaves him standing on four tiny wheels, and he doesn’t seem phased at all. Party’s grateful for his expertise when the brunet releases his fingers, shiny and dripping with saliva. All he has to do is snake his hand between them and arch his wrist up, and he’s pressing a wet finger into the man. He doesn’t want to add the second as quickly as he does, but he figures having the saliva dry would be worse.
The man is tall, tall enough to grab for the edge of the vending machine as Party starts to fuck him. He thrashes his head back and forth when Party gets into rhythm, hair sticking to his sweaty face. Party braces himself, one palm flat on the warm metal of the vending machine, the other clenched just under the stranger’s elbow. He wouldn’t mind jerking the guy off, but it’ll have to wait. It’s all he can do to keep his own balance, flat footed and all. The last time he fucked someone it was under the haze of Better Living medication, barely able to feel himself coming, not having the first clue if his partner was and pills not letting him care. In comparison this is clear, detailed with edges sharp enough to make him bleed. The sun is beating down and burning any fog of memory away, making sure he never loses this experience inside his own chemically pickled brain. There’s hair and fabric and breath and sweat and finally, sweet God, finally, come.
Instead of taking a step back Party Poison presses in all the closer. It only takes a step to pin the man between his body and the white wall of the vending machine. The stranger takes it for the opportunity it is, leg settling on the ground but hands replacing them in keeping Party pulled near. He ruts against him, cock hard and leaking, fingers clenching in an almost spasm, until he comes on the hip of Party’s jeans. The liquid makes the grey dirt darker. It’ll dry by the time he gets back home, he’s sure of it. The air they live in sucks the moisture out of everything.
“Yeah, you can meet him. He’s inside.” As post-coitus words they’re. Well, Party doesn’t know, honestly. He can’t remember anything that was said in Battery City, or if he or the vaguely remembered partner -he doesn’t even remember a gender- said anything at all. But he suspects they should be ‘that was fun’, or ‘let’s hang out again later’.
Frankly, he likes these ones better. It means he’s won. Or at least gotten an even trade, which is so infrequent it seems like winning. Although, it’s a slight piss off to know his prey was only a few feet away the whole time. “Seriously? I could have just walked in?”
“No. I would have blasted you. It’s really a lucky thing you didn’t try. I’m a good shot.” It’s said with the same almost-boredom of their first words exchanged, the same cold arrogant confidence/idiocy. This time around Party’s betting even harder on confidence. As much as he wants to get inside and speak to his idol, he has a feeling that this man will be a good one to know.