If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-07-09 18:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | heroin, marijuana |
Who: Marijuana and Heroin, completed scene.
What: Actually resolving marital issues is for quitters. Distraction is more enjoyable.
Where: The Highway, shop front and then the apartment.
When: July seventh, evening.
Warnings: Language, alcohol intoxication, hard drug use (kind of) and fade-to-black sexuality.
Marijuana: Laser tag had gone well. Very well. Marijuana's team had won at least half of the games and the god had gotten very resounding drunk. Eventually, however, it was time for them all to leave the complex, which ended up looking more like a war zone when they were done with it, and the Highway crew piled themselves into one car, Wes, Bryn, and Matt squished together in the back seat, Cam driving, and Marijuana signing along to 'Bike' as they neared the Highway. He had almost managed to forget that, while he had been shooting lasers at people, his husband had been socializing with Cocaine. Almost, but not quite. Still, it was a happy Marijuana who entered the Highway amongst a stream of very drunk mortals, Cam holding him up as Bryn plopped down next to the counter and rested her head against the wood, as Matt almost fell and prompted Wes to pick him up with gentleness that didn't suit his big form. Marijuana ignored them all and instead focused on the figure sitting on the couch beside the magazine rack, reading.
Marijuana grinned. Shrugging Cam's arm from around his shoulder, he walked carefully over to the couch, only stumbling once or twice. And then he was pitching forward, tumbling down into Heroin's lap, book be damned. "That was on purpose, I'll have you know." He mumbled, wrapping an arm around Heroin's shoulders and shifting to get settled. Still grinning, he reached out to pluck Heroin's reading glasses from his husband's nose and placing them haphazardly on his own face. That just made the room spin more and he wrinkled his nose, pushing them up to settle in his hair and leaning down to rest his cheek against Heroin's shoulder. "Who won, Seligkeit?" He asked, his speech horribly slurred and his mind swimming enough that he could bypass the fact that Heroin had spent the day with Cocaine to slide a hand down over his husband's shirt, over Heroin's chest to settle lightly on his stomach.
Heroin: The noise from the street carried into the shop, making Heroin smile as he turned the page in his oversized copy of Rilke and settled further down into the cozy comfort of the couch. He pushed his reading glasses a little higher up his nose and focused, studiously focused, on the page in front of him so as not to look up, not to watch Marijuana cross the floor, not stare at him – or leap up, off the couch and into his arms with more force than grace. Which, in Marijuana’s present condition, probably would have ended with them both on the floor, but when he sprawled onto Heroin’s lap the book was gone and Heroin was smiling brilliantly at his handsome husband. He laughed when Mari took his glasses and smoothed back his hair and kissed the tip of his nose. “Spain,” he said with a little sigh before kissing his husband a second time. “I’m terribly disappointed, Germany had a very good team. And speaking of teams, did you decimate the other team in laser tag, Geliebte?”
Heroin settled his arm around Marijuana’s shoulders, a little worried about him tumbling to the floor, and – since he was playing with Heroin’s shirt – Heroin slid his hand underneath the hem of Marijuana’s Syd Barrett shirt, fingers playing over warm skin. “I missed you.”
Marijuana: Under Heroin's touch - the hand smoothing down his hair, the kiss to his nose - yes, it was all too easy to forget about Cocaine. They'd had their day apart and they had come back together and, yes, Marijuana was rather drunk, but it was better than binge drinking with no purpose and it was better than ruining his lambo while drag racing. Marijuana smiled easily, immersing his free hand in Heroin's hair and leaning down to nuzzle into the curve of his husband's neck. "Mm, sorry about that." Marijuana wasn't overly sorry; Spain wasn't Mexico but they were Spanish and that still counted in Marijuana's inebriated mind. But there was more touch to concentrate on, Heroin's fingers sliding up underneath his shirt and Marijuana squirmed slightly in his husband's lap, exhaling in a rush of missing and needing and wanting. Why did they ever bother to spend time apart? And then he was giving back as good as he was getting, or better, as his hand slid down from Heroin's stomach and stopped on the button of Heroin's slacks.
"I missed you too, Heroin-mine." Marijuana replied lightly, innocently, yet the innocent tone was ruined when he popped the button open smoothly, fingers then resting on the zipper pull. But then there was a giggle, a snort, from the direction of the counter where the crew had congregated. "We good to take off, bossman?" Matt asked from where he was slung over Wes' shoulder, the bodyguard already half-way out the door as Cam took pity on Bryn and bent to offer a hand to help her up. "Get out of here, you lot." Marijuana said distractedly, his eyes still fixed on Heroin. Then his voice lowered. "Help me get upstairs, husband?"
Heroin: Tangled up in each other, Heroin felt awed – as he always did – to fit against Marijuana; it was like needles dancing, whispering against skin and humming inside bone because they were right, they fit, slid together without space wherever they touched. The silly-happy smile on Mari’s face made Heroin’s stomach twist happily and he ducked his head, gave his neck to his husband and laughed lightly at the scrape of stubble over soft skin. But fair was fair and Heroin squeezed Mari’s hip before long fingers slid over his stomach and up, drawing a line from navel to sternum while Heroin indulged in soft kisses to his lover’s shoulder. “I expect my wonderful husband to console me; I just want you to know that.” Heroin was smiling, every bit as silly-happy as his husband, particularly when his husband’s hand brushed against his stomach and the zipper of his slacks; instantly, he blushed. Ducking his head, he pressed another kiss to the top of Marijuana’s shoulder; Heroin’s lips lingered, eyes closed as he held tighter and let Mari undo the top button and slide his hand inside Heroin’s pants.
Even the giggle didn’t totally distract Heroin, though it did make him blush darker, burrow closer against his husband and nuzzle at his shoulder even more needily. After a moment, a long moment, Heroin looked up and at his husband, carefully slid his hand from under Marijuana’s shirt and away from his wonderfully warm skin to pluck the reading glasses from they were perched. Once Heroin had them settled, nearly on the tip of his nose, he looked at his husband with mock seriousness. “Yes, yes I think that I might just be able to do that.” The seriousness evaporated after a moment because Heroin needed to kiss Marijuana, all deep and hard and with a bit of teeth nipping at his lower lip. “C’mon, luv,” Heroin whispered against his husband’s mouth, “let’s get to bed.”
Marijuana: Heroin's neck was offered willingly and Marijuana took advantage of it; stubble scraped and then lips and teeth followed for a brief moment, nipping and then kissing to soothe bitten skin. And then Heroin touched him again, touched him more, and it was tender, perfect, and Heroin was touching him. Not Cocaine; Heroin could spend all the time he wanted with Cocaine but Marijuana was the one he touched. Marijuana flushed happily at that thought and his smile grew even sillier, even more infatuated, even more blissfully in love. "Your wonderful husband will do his best, I promise." There was the alcohol to take into account, of course, it could end up being a matter of mind willing, body far too intoxicated to obey the mind, but he would try. Oh, would he try. But contemplating that little issue was pointless, especially when Heroin was stealing the reading glasses back and looking at Marijuana in a way that, while he knew it wasn't serious, still sent a shiver down his spine.
For a moment, Marijuana looked utterly enthralled as his mind went places inappropriate for the first floor of the Highway and he barely had time to try to break himself out of it before Heroin kissed him. If asked, Marijuana would blame Heroin's prior seriousness and gravity for the way he yielded completely into the kiss, melting against his husband and sighing in disappointment when his husband pulled away enough to whisper against his lips. Slipping his hand down just a bit further, his fingers wormed their way in between smooth flesh and the waistband of Heroin's boxer-briefs. It was only when his fingertips brushed against the beginnings of fine hair that he pulled it back slowly, regretfully. "Bed, yes. Or the couch. Or anything soft between here and there, really." Sighing at the effort it would take, Marijuana slowly detached himself from his husband, standing carefully and resting his hand on Heroin's shoulder to balance himself as the room start spin even faster around him. He would have to trust Heroin to get them both upstairs without either of them getting bruised in the process.
Heroin: The way Marijuana yielded in the kiss – for whatever reason he would give if asked, and Heroin would never ask – stole the last breath from Heroin’s lungs, set his heart to hammering in an off-rhythm even after he’d pulled back, licked his lips for the taste of Marijuana to savour, swallowed because he was sliding his hands further into Heroin’s clothing, against him, touching him more and he swallowed again, hard, looking at his husband in all seriousness – play gone. “I love you, Marihuana-mine.” Heroin almost caught Mari’s hand, thought for a moment about kiss his palm, which would lead to kiss his wrist and that spot just below the inside of his elbow and so and so on until they were tangled up again, kissing on the couch. So Heroin let him go. Once Marijuana was upright – a rather nerve wracking process, from the bystander’s point of view – Heroin covered the hand on his shoulder, holding on lightly as he rose to his feet. Standing together, he was still and balanced while Marijuana swayed just a little; Heroin let go of his husband’s hand and touched Marijuana’s cheek with fingertips, traced its curve and down to the corner of his mouth and then across his lips.
And then Heroin’s hand dropped to Marijuana’s hip, arm wrapped around him to offer support during the long and dangerous journey from first floor couch to their apartment. Heroin loved those treks, Marijuana’s weight pressed against him, stumbling, even slipping and falling together, loved the silly-happy smile and bright eyes and scrape of stubble and the tickle of Marijuana’s hair underneath his nose or against his cheek as they walked. Heroin could have done without the smell of alcohol, though. “C’mon, my love. We can try for the bed and wherever we end up, at least it’ll be flat.” Heroin tugged his husband’s arm over his shoulders, made sure they were settled, all nestled against each other, and headed in the direction of the staircase which led to their apartment. Skirting the counter carefully, he managed not to trip over Marijuana’s feet or hit either of them with the door and, steep as that staircase could seem with one drunk Drug God cuddled against Heroin’s side, practice made perfect and there was trick to navigating the steps. Several tricks, in fact, the first and most important of which was about keeping track of everyone’s feet at all times. The second trick, related to the first, was making sure noone’s feet strayed into someone else’s territory. Managing that, Heroin managed to keep them both vaguely upright.
Marijuana: It wasn't fake anymore, Heroin wasn't playing and that made Marijuana's breath hitch lightly in his throat, made the insides of his arms start to tingle and itch deliciously. "Marihuana-yours." He murmured slowly, wrapping his mouth around each syllable, letting them sink down into his skin, his mind, letting them settle over him like armour that even Cocaine couldn't penetrate. And when he came back to himself, when he stopping thinking about how much those words meant to him, they were standing and Heroin was, again, touching. Marijuana tried to follow Heroin's fingertips with his lips and succeeded for just a moment, a kiss brushing over the tip of Heroin's forefinger before his hand dropped to Marijuana's hip. "I love you too, Heroin." Marijuana mumbled it, his words slurring blissfully as he let Heroin draw his arm up around his husband's shoulder, Marijuana tightening it and taking the opportunity to let his hand fall, to let his fingers circle over Heroin's collarbone through the fabric of his husband's shirt. Cam looked up at them as they passed the counter. "I'll lock up." He said quietly, his own words as slurred as Marijuana's as the mortal gently guided Bryn into a sitting position on one of the stools where the young woman sighed lightly and rested her head down on the counter.
Marijuana made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat; he was too occupied making sure he didn't step on Heroin's feet or stumble, either against the wall or into Heroin. And, finally, they were upstairs and Marijuana squeezed his husband's shoulder thankfully before he glanced between the couch and the distance they would have to cross in order to get to the bedroom. "Fuck it." He mumbled lightly and then took a step, than another, away from Heroin and flopped down on the couch on his back, giving his husband a drunkenly loving and affectionate smile as he spread out, as he raised a hand to beckon Heroin toward him. And if he splayed his legs out a bit too suggestively while trying to create an image that would have Heroin's breath catching in his throat, well, no one could blame him. "I believe I said I'd console you, husband-mine. And you should congratulate me on my numerous laser tag victories." Tipping his head back to rest against the arm of the couch, Marijuana gazed up at his husband, looking just as enthralled as he had on the couch downstairs. What he had in mind for their mixture of consolation and congratulation was something that rarely happened in their marriage but Marijuana wanted, wanted to be reclaimed as Heroin's, as the only one who would and could ever be claimed in such a way.
Heroin: Opiates and alcohol didn’t mix; Heroin kept well away from his cousin’s substance – he was Morphine’s twin, after all – but could admit in private, to himself only, that there was some good to her effects. Even the stumbling up the stairs that seemed so much longer when Marijuana was drunk and draped over Heroin’s shoulder was good, in the strange, being close way that Marijuana being drunk was good. And the smiles, the way they moved together and the flow of his emotions through their connection, those were things which Heroin could bring himself – just barely – to thank Alcohol for, not out loud, of course, and never directly, but quietly and in the privacy of his own mind, he could do that much. Particularly when his husband looked like that.
Heroin raised an eyebrow and just stood there, took in the tilt of Marijuana’s hips, the angle of one leg and the curve of his fingers as they beckoned. Oh yes, that was plenty of reason to be thankful to someone, but Heroin was much more inclined to be thankful to his husband – for his husband – and the way Marijuana always had of making Heroin’s heart beat, faster and stuttering, yes, but more than that, Marijuana made it beat. That wasn’t always a given; Heroin was slow and sluggish, the systems of his body moved in a deliberate waltz except when his husband was involved, looked in his direction, sprawled out on a couch with that look on his face and then they leapt into something faster, louder, pounding – like a foxtrot, or flamenco. “You’re right,” he murmured as he started toward the couch, moving with a deliberate pace to echo his normal heartbeat. “I should congratulate my husband on his victories.” There was an emphasis on my, because Marijuana was and the silver that glinted in Heroin’s eyes were a whisper of the god that always claimed what was his.
“And you should console me. It was a devastating loss.” At the couch, he rested his hand on the back of it and threw his leg over Marijuana’s hip so that Heroin’s knee was nestled tight between his husband’s body and the cushions. A little shift and his weight was entirely on the couch and Heroin was perfectly posed to kiss him, slow and deep, learning the curve of Marijuana’s mouth and the taste – under the alcohol – and the way their faces fit together. “I love you, husband-mine,” he whispered against his husband’s mouth. Heroin shifted as he straddled Marijuana, had both knees on either side of his hips so that Heroin could drop his hand from the couch and place both palms on his husband’s chest. That was better, so much better because he could surrender to the pull of gravity and the temptation of Marijuana’s mouth and just close his eyes and kiss, feeling his heart beat so fast underneath Heroin’s always cool palms.
Marijuana: Tension and desire snapped between them as Heroin stood there, drawing it out. Phantom sparks sizzled and cracked, phantom chemicals bubbled and writhed and Marijuana felt as if he couldn't breathe and didn't want to; drawing air and smoke down into his lungs was unimportant compared to the pleasure of waiting and wanting. Heroin stepping forward only made it better, that much headier, and with his husband's emphasis and that glint in his eyes - desirous, possessive, as sharp as a vein-piercing needle - Marijuana's hips canted up just slightly of their own accord, before Heroin had even reached the couch. They fell back against the cushions as Heroin spoke, Marijuana smiling almost innocently, the expression, yet again, sullied by his words and actions. "What kind of husband would I be if I didn't offer myself up to you in your time of sorrow?" His voice was almost coy and his breath - was he breathing again? how had that happened? - hitched on the last word as Heroin's knee connected to the couch and pressed against the side of Marijuana's hip.
But then there was more to concentrate on; there was the downward press of Heroin's hips and the reactive upward push of Marijuana's. Connection, connection, want and need, and then a kiss that had Marijuana arching up even further, his hand immersing in the fine hair in the back of Heroin's neck to keep him there. Marijuana's tongue tangled with Heroin's to draw it further into his mouth, pulling back just an inch to whisper against Heroin's lips. "I love you too. And I'll always be Marihuana-yours." Sliding his tongue along Heroin's lower lip, Marijuana marveled at how everything bad seemed to slip away into the ether with Heroin's weight spread out across his own. In that moment, the ever-looming spectre of Cocaine seemed far away, the haunting melodies of a musician driven mad by LSD seemed as quiet as Syd's grave. Sighing needfully into his husband's mouth, Marijuana's free hand slid down to rest on Heroin's lower back, pushing down lightly and oh, Marijuana was lost.
Then again, he was always lost in Heroin, whether it was in the crinkles at the corners of his husband's lips when he smiled or the needle-steel glint in his husband's eyes, the glint that seemed to penetrate down to the very bottom of Marijuana's core. And even though Marijuana's eyes were closed and he couldn't see, he still knew that the glint remained behind Heroin's eyelids, could tell from the movements of Heroin's lips against his own, his hands pressed over Marijuana's rapidly beating heart. Marijuana only pulled back again to speak, only put as much distance between their lips as was needed for him to speak. "I mean what I said, you know, about-" And, of course, this particular urge didn't come without nerves for Marijuana; he licked his lips anxiously and gazed up at his husband with those nerves barely visible underneath the deep trust he always gave Heroin. "-offering."
Heroin: “And I’m a very lucky god, to have you offering.” The needle points of silver softened, filled up Heroin’s irises with pure quicksilver light. He let his hands drift down Marijuana’s chest, fingers changing as they moved, always thing and becoming thinner, paler, the bleached white of bone and glinting silver; silver at the nails that were no longer clear keratin and neatly trimmed like human’s were. The delicate hands of a drug god tipped with sharp needles, always glinting like Heroin’s eyes as he leaned down to kiss his husband as though he drink the smoke from Marijuana’s lungs, pull them into his own. Maybe Heroin could. He trailed kisses down from Marijuana’s mouth to his chin, jaw, one of his Adam’s apple – exposed and vulnerable and so irresistible to nip at with careful teeth – and then dip in his collarbone that was delicious to taste and the corner of his neck where Heroin nuzzle as his changed hands slid under Marijuana’s shirt to skim over hot skin.
Their roles didn’t change often, and often it didn’t matter. Except that sometimes it did, the roles changed and everything inside Heroin clicked from protector to predator and the silver of his eyes was the silver of the last hypodermic needle an addict would ever use, need, feel. And then all Heroin felt when he looked at his husband filled a word: mine. He slipped one hand from Marijuana’s chest to run along his arm, the needle of Heroin’s thumb following the blue line of vein from the inside of an elbow up, up, up underneath the short sleeve to push through soft skin and into the blood below. “Mine,” he sang softly, in a note that made bones ache and addicts’ arms itch as he nipped playing at the skin behind Marijuana’s ear. Heroin’s, all his as the heroin flood from needle to circulatory system to brain to dreams and marks, claiming.
Marijuana: Marijuana opened his eyes in time to see the shift in Heroin's. It called up a shift within himself, eyes turning a burning green and wide and watchful, hoping, following Heroin's shifting fingers as best they could. Marijuana remained still as they trailed down his chest, still save for a slight tremble of his entire body that betrayed exactly how much he wanted those fingers to sink beneath his skin and bring with them everything he loved and desperately needed. Utterly pliant under Heroin's hungry kiss, it was all Marijuana could do to tighten his fingers in Heroin's hair, to arch and then moan and then actually whimper when he felt Heroin's hands push up under his shirt, craving the scrape-slide of needle-nails over his skin, craving welts and marks and blood welling up from fine red lines. And Marijuana didn't know why he failed to offer this so often; it was release in the most delicious way, giving himself up to Heroin and trusting his husband to hold him tightly afterward.
There were no thoughts of after, however, just Heroin's predatory nature, Heroin's predatory gaze that caught Marijuana like a deer in headlights. Bone-white, silver-needle headlights, washing over Marijuana and then narrowing to a point somewhere down in Marijuana's core, far enough down that submission didn't come with a loss of pride and dignity, and Marijuana bit his lip against another whimper as one of those nails traced up his vein. No Cocaine, no Syd, nothing but Heroin and his Marijuana. "Y-yours." Marijuana gasped out with that maddening note still reverberating through his mind and body, staring up at his husband as if he was prey about to be devoured by needle-teeth, as if he was two seconds away from supplication, from worshiping Heroin for the God he was. And then, the bite, prick, push, oh, of the needle and the rush of heroin so pure that it would kill a mortal and Marijuana's hips snapped up needfully even as the rest of body went slack.
Pure bliss rushing through his veins and Marijuana couldn't open his eyes again, couldn't say much more than half-fragments of words that amounted to 'yours' and 'love' and 'need' once they were strung together. It didn't matter; Heroin knew what he wanted without Marijuana having to muddle through the words. He simply held tightly to Heroin, tipped his head back, and let himself get lost in his husband's substance, in his husband's eventual movements above and into him.