He settles on an old classic and pops open the jewel case, extracting Thrill Kill Kult and throwing it into the player. Cranks the volume up to suitably deafening, and closes his eyes against the stupid world. * * * Harry throws his leather jacket across the seat of his bike and the helmet on the tank. The silver key in his hand glimmers in the low streetlight. Nice place...set-back. Well away from prying eyes and ears. Which is good at the moment, since the bass-kick from whatever song Elijah is playing would wake the dead. Harry trots up the stairs silently -- not that it matters. Unlocks the door, and just stares for a moment. Admiring. Elijah stands in the middle of the tiny living room, body swaying, baggy jeans falling over slim hips, white t-shirt stretched over a lithe chest. Undulating, swaying -- by no means graceful, but that's alright. Harry doesn't want Elijah's grace. Elijah keeps moving, isn't relaxing, but this music isn't about that. Fuck that new-age "ohm" crap. He wants to taste aggression made into sound, have it roll through his ears and over his tongue like bloody sugar candy. Something -- some instinct, primal, the sort meant to keep you alive -- tells him he's being watched. He turns around. Harry. The perfect answer to his fucked-up day. A slow, insolent smile flitters across Harry's face, and he steps into the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. "Thought I'd find you here." Another four steps and the heat of Harry's chest is pressed against Elijah, searing nerves already on fire from the music still shaking the walls, pounding in his head. Elijah feels a twin rush of annoyance and lust, his eyes narrowing. Assuming. So fucking arrogant. "Where the fuck do you get off coming in here like that?" Elijah says, bringing his hands up flat against Harry's chest and shoving him backwards hard -- not that Harry moves. "You don't own me -- you can't just waltz in here like I'm at your goddamn disposal." He sees the dangerous look flicker across Harry's face but he doesn't stop. Elijah isn't good about knowing when to stop. Or rather...he is. When he wants to be. "I'm not your personal fucktoy, you know." "On the contrary." Harry's hand is bruising when it grips Elijah's throat, and he propels Elijah into the CD case, the jewel cases cutting deep into his back. "You're my whore, and we both know it." Elijah scrambles to remove the hand, to shove Harry off of him, but it's like moving a mountain. And the hot light in amber eyes tells him that he wouldn't get very far even if he did run. The edge is there, drawn like a line in the sand. Elijah doesn't like lines. So he skates right the fuck over it -- spits in Harry's face. "Fuck. You." Oh yes. That gets Harry's attention. The hand on his throat tightens, squeezing precious oxygen out, leaving marks. And the brutal tongue invading his mouth steals the rest, allows no respite, no quarter. There is only dark heat, and a fierce need clawing inside him, aching to be ripped loose. Harry uses the other hand to rip Elijah's shirt, the soft, thin material giving easily under his hand, and he licks lips bloody from Elijah's sharp teeth. "My whore. My pretty, decadent whore." The slap across Elijah's face is casual in its cruelty, seductive in its power. Elijah's head snaps under the force of the blow, and he spits blood. Sees red, gives in to the urge to fight. He brings his knee up as hard as he can, catching Harry in the balls. Harry winces in pain but only tightens his grip on Elijah's throat; Elijah's lack of leverage from standing nearly on tiptoe diffuses much of the blow's force. "You may want to treat those a little better." Elijah cries out -- breathless moan of pleasure/pain -- when Harry's fingers twists a nipple hard before moving down, tugging at the zipper of his jeans, shoving them over his hips. And Elijah begins struggling anew, bucking up, clawing at the large hand on his throat. "I like it when you fight me." Raspy whisper across Elijah's ear, sharp tug on the bottom as Harry uses his teeth. Fucking hell... "I like breaking you." The need stretches, claws its way out of Elijah's skin, seems to permeate the room. Wraps a dark blanket around them, suffocating, intense. Perfect. Elijah hisses, writhing against the implacable grip, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. "Cock...." He coughs and sputters. "...sucker..." "Yes, but you love my cock, don't you?" Harry jerks Elijah's jeans down the rest of the way, shoving his own past his hips. His eyes never leave Elijah's never waver -- and the hand on Elijah's throat tightens a bit with every soft word. "You're a whore for it." He shoves Elijah back again, wrapping one of Elijah's legs around his waist. "You're begging for it right now." Hard, heavy cock probing at Elijah's entrance, pushing in, tearing flesh -- breaching. Pain burns through Elijah, stretching-searing-pain, and tears spring to his eyes, but Harry's words are exciting him despite that, because of it. The edges of the world go slightly gray and fuzzy as he struggles to suck air, the slow haze fueling the heat in his cock. He presses forward in a vain attempt to rub his erection against Harry's stomach. Harry nips at Elijah's lower lip, lapping the small droplets of blood, his smile dark. "Is this how you want it?" He presses in a bit more, a slow slide that fills, brings more exquisite pain. Elijah sucks on his lip, tasting sour copper, hating and wanting. "Fuck...off..." he manages to croak out. "My thoughts exactly," Harry replies, another small smile flickering across his face before slamming forward, pushing in. Elijah's world explodes in a searing miasma of tearing flesh, pulsing heat. Harry's mouth is just as brutal, just as harsh -- and the hand wrapping itself around Elijah's cock moves at a furious pace. Elijah screams into Harry's mouth at the sudden invasion, fighting and clawing against him, but the swift jerks of Harry's hand on him are sending the pain sliding, changing, burning through into something sweethot fucking good, and it's going to hurt like hell tomorrow but right now Elijah doesn't care. The world has gone from gray to red and black behind his eyes, his cock swelling like a balloon that's been pumped full of too much air, stretching, ready to explode. Harry slams into Elijah again and again and there -- the orgasm tears through Elijah and he screams again, jerking, smashing his head back against the wall. Another brutal thrust, another kiss that obliterates what little breath Elijah has managed to suck in, and Harry comes -- hot and sticky -- deep inside him, marking him. Elijah gives a final shudder, a hair's breadth away from passing out due to lack of oxygen and so much pleasure-pain that his skin feels oddly like it's splitting open. Harry's grip finally loosens, and Elijah gratefully gulps air. He collapses against the wall in a boneless heap when Harry unceremoniously pulls out and lets go of him. Sits there, glazed and obliterated, fresh bruises flowering livid purple on his neck. Makeup will have a stroke tomorrow, but Elijah isn't thinking about that. They're filming the tower scene tomorrow, anyway...the bruises would just add realism. He looks at Harry, still standing there panting with his jeans down, and tries to formulate something to say. Fails. Harry takes his time about pulling up his jeans, using the corner of his t-shirt to clean himself up a bit. His eyes don't leave Elijah, and his hands are almost gentle when he squats down, traces the newly formed handprints on Elijah's throat. "So very pretty," he murmurs. Elijah never even sees the blow coming. Harry's hand connects with Elijah's cheek in a casual backhand that has stars exploding behind his eyes. Then Harry's tongue laps at the welt, obscenely soft. "My pretty whore," he states, and walks out just as silently as he arrived. Elijah's eyes follow Harry's retreating form, the hatred in them cooling now to something less thick and immediate. His hand steals up to his face, fingers brushing across the mark. He brings his fingers to his mouth. Slowly sucks them, searching for the taste of Harry.
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