"Assistant," a bright, staticky voice says, and he sighs, putting down his fork. He's already alone in his flat, listening to angry music, eating a microwaved dinner. Isn't his life pathetic enough without--this?
"What do you want," he asks, flat. "Here to terrorize me again? Give me another field trip in your corridors? Didn't have enough fun last time?" He takes a weary bite of mediocre chicken breast and waits.
"You're interesting, Assistant," Michael says, and Tim chews on his sad chicken and doesn't respond.
Michael drapes himself over Tim's shoulders like a fucked-up sharp blanket, hands like knives crossing above his chest, and hums a tune of nothing in particular into his hair.
"I want you," Michael says, one finger digging in enough to draw blood. "I've seen what you do here in your flat. I want to try that."
Tim blinks. "You--oh, Christ. Are you saying you want to have sex with me?"
"It seems interesting," Michael says, beaming. "Do you want to try?"
Tim sighs. Against his better judgement, a large part of him is going oh why not. Why not. He's already a dead man walking. Might as well add 'banged a monster' to his checkered resume.
"Sure," he sighs. "Let me finish my dinner, and then sure."
Michael's long, knife-like fingers swipe out and grab a bit of microwaved mashed potato and bring it to his mouth. "It's not very good," he says, looking down at Tim.
"It's food, and I need that to live," Tim says. He doesn't have much of a defense beyond that.
"You know," Michael says as he runs a hand down Tim's side, shredding the shirt he's wearing, "if you wanted more exciting food I could help you."
"I'd rather not feed off the terror of the week, thanks," Tim snorts. "Also, I liked that shirt."
"Sorry," Michael says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL 1/?: Tim Stoker/Michael, weird sex
Date: 2020-01-12 03:46 am (UTC)"Assistant," a bright, staticky voice says, and he sighs, putting down his fork. He's already alone in his flat, listening to angry music, eating a microwaved dinner. Isn't his life pathetic enough without--this?
"What do you want," he asks, flat. "Here to terrorize me again? Give me another field trip in your corridors? Didn't have enough fun last time?" He takes a weary bite of mediocre chicken breast and waits.
"You're interesting, Assistant," Michael says, and Tim chews on his sad chicken and doesn't respond.
Michael drapes himself over Tim's shoulders like a fucked-up sharp blanket, hands like knives crossing above his chest, and hums a tune of nothing in particular into his hair.
"I want you," Michael says, one finger digging in enough to draw blood. "I've seen what you do here in your flat. I want to try that."
Tim blinks. "You--oh, Christ. Are you saying you want to have sex with me?"
"It seems interesting," Michael says, beaming. "Do you want to try?"
Tim sighs. Against his better judgement, a large part of him is going oh why not. Why not. He's already a dead man walking. Might as well add 'banged a monster' to his checkered resume.
"Sure," he sighs. "Let me finish my dinner, and then sure."
Michael's long, knife-like fingers swipe out and grab a bit of microwaved mashed potato and bring it to his mouth. "It's not very good," he says, looking down at Tim.
"It's food, and I need that to live," Tim says. He doesn't have much of a defense beyond that.
"You know," Michael says as he runs a hand down Tim's side, shredding the shirt he's wearing, "if you wanted more exciting food I could help you."
"I'd rather not feed off the terror of the week, thanks," Tim snorts. "Also, I liked that shirt."
"Sorry," Michael says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all.