Tangible Schizophrenia


Red Line

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Paul Smecker/Michael Greenly
Feedback: Much appreciated.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Used goodtwin's name for Greenly. Done for the contrelamontre Fiona Apple challenge, and because of inkbug's poking. Completed in 55 minutes.
Summary: There's riding, and then there's riding. Some meanings are more exhausting than others.


So keep on calling me names, keep on, keep on
And I'll keep kicking the crap till it's gone

--'The Way Things Are," Fiona Apple


Yeah, the subway wasn't so great this time of night, but Paul hadn't felt like hiking out to where he could've gotten a taxi. Too much effort when fatigue was already bending his bones, and too much of a chance of getting some goddamned motormouth taxi driver. He could've snapped shut those teeth with a few well-chosen words, but then he'd have to watch his back for yet more pairs of eyes. People never paid attention to the taxi guys, but damned if those fucks didn't have their own little syndicate, like everyone else in the city.

The train screech-groaned to another stop, settling like an old fat whore on a barstool, and Greenly stepped on. Paul blasphemed.

"You're lucky those carbon-copy Irish psychos aren't around," the other man scolded, flopping beside Paul. Greenly stretched, sprawled, as fresh as a fucking daisy when Paul knew that he'd kept the idiot running around all day. "How's the ride?"

"I've had better in the back-alley of a Tijuana whorehouse. How was yours?" When the puzzled, half-angry look came, Paul slouched back and sourly grinned. "I assume you had to blow somebody to track me down here."

Sputter, sputter, sputter. Seemed to be Greenly's one and only reaction. "Can't you just give me credit for getting a little into your head?"

"No." It was curt and stark and completely out of character, but Paul didn't give a fuck. He was too wiped out to produce his usual sparkling conversation, and his head was aching a little; he prayed to any and every god that it wouldn't develop into a full-blown migraine. He had too much shit on his plate to go on another bender, and he doubted that there were any nice, sympathetic Catholic priests nearby.

Come to think of it, that whole episode had been off. He made a note to prod Connor about it the next time the twins showed up.

"Bastard." Greenly shifted, antsy after five-fucking-seconds, and played with his belt buckle. Christ. Could the man be any more obvious?

Could Paul be any more uninterested, more like. He was beginning to wonder if maybe he'd developed that thing in the commercial, Chronic Fatigue something. Or maybe it wasn't a physical exhaustion that kept dogging him, but something in his mind. It wouldn't surprise him. Things hadn't been the same up there since he'd gotten sucked into the Saints' urban roadshow o' rough justice. "Just shut up, Greenly."

"Go fuck yourself." Contrary to his words, Greenly was in fact sliding onto the floor and grabbing at Paul's zipper before Paul could do anything. He shoved past Paul's slow reflexes and had cock in mouth in less time than it took to bark out a protest. "Mmmh mhpp grymph."

Like you don't want it, Paul mentally translated. It was more than slightly disturbing that he could do that, and the irritation he felt at that realization was enough to keep him from also getting that hell, he was being fucked. Without a single finger inside. Just heat and sucking and shit. "Fucking chair," he mumbled, shoving off the sharp corner.

Which ended up shoving him deeper into Greenly's mouth, and if the rest of Paul was growling and wanting out, his prick definitely wasn't thinking that. He flailed around, knowledge of the stupid picture he made burning into his face, and grabbed for a railing. Bit down when the groans started, and tried not to rock. So Greenly, that stupid bastard, did it for him, rising up some and sliding his throat around Paul's cock like it was a brand-new candy cane. Damn it, Paul'd been dealing with too much vice lately if he was thinking like that.

Greenly's hand was long-fingered but broad, and it pressed hard into Paul's hip, probably imprinting crease marks into the bone. The other man swallowed, muscles squeezing Paul without mercy, and then actually let out his fucking teeth. That got him a slap to the head, and Paul thinking about just braining the moron with his gun, but then tongue slipping sideways into corners and curves and thinking went out the window. Fuck. Fucker. Fucked.

After Greenly wiped off his mouth, he started to climb up Paul's legs like they were his own private playground. Well, no. Paul flicked his fingers at one shoulder, bringing the other man to a stop. "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing, Greenly?"

"Getting off. And you could use my first name for this. Got no fucking manners to go with those shiny suits." With not so much as a please, the jackass straddled Paul's thigh and started to hump it like a dog.

"Christ, you're embarrassing." Rolling his eyes, Paul yanked up his waistband with one hand and used the other to take hold of Green-of Michael's side. He snaked his fingers up the man's shirt and tweaked a nipple, smirking at the whine he got. "Even brand spanking new fairies don't do it like that. Here, you fucking ignoramus."

And okay, Paul was slightly interested. Enough to put both palms on Michael's hips and show them how to move, enough to slide his thumbs out and tease that ridge straining the jeans' crotch until Michael was spitting and cursing and just about ready to punch Paul in the face. Which would've been even more interesting, except that this was already an empty subway car and that was currently plenty for Paul, thank you. His assignments in the unofficial red-light districts tended to throw him off his appetite for kink.

Predictably, Michael came with a sharp whip of torso and a slew of keening swears. He collapsed into Paul, and then refused to get off, no matter how much Paul shoved and elbowed. Too much deadweight, and it had to be admitted that Michael did have a considerable advantage in the physical strength department. Exact reason why Paul generally tried to keep the shithead too confused to remember about that. "Off, damn it. I don't cuddle."

"And my fucking knees hurt. Least you could do is give me a minute." Warm breath in Paul's neck, and sweat dripping from Michael's forehead into his ear. "Stop being so pissy. It'd cut down on your headaches."

"How the hell do you know about those?" Too late, Paul remembered that he was supposed to deny having that kind of stuff. It was bad enough knowing himself that he was getting old.

Michael tiredly snickered and shifted his weight so it went from Paul's leg to his shoulder. "You get this look, like a prune. And you do stupid things, like screwing in a train and pretending you didn't like it."

Smartass. Paul cuffed the other man in the head, got his elbow banged against the wall for his trouble, and began revising his habits. Bad sign when even Green-okay, he could stay Michael for a little while longer-caught on. "Some day I'm going to let you get all worked up, and then leave you with your pants down."

"But you haven't yet," Michael pointed out, too fucking smug.

"Yeah." Paul leaned back, whistling, and then twisted hard so Greenly fell ass-over-ears to the floor. He didn't offer a hand to the other man. "Still wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you."



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