january 2020. welcome to the void.

[modblob]

Who: Everyone in Anchor.
What: Seventh Introductory Mingle
When: The Month of January 2020
Where: Around and outside the city.
Warnings: Please add any warnings in the subject lines.

Redshift: Welcome to the v͖͕̺̲̘̱̜͎o̴̦̣̠̦̘̹͞i̯̖d̛̪̬͈̱̦̝͍̕.

Click here to read what characters will experience when arriving in Anchor.

a. champagne supernova.

Normally, the changes in the sky are subtle, happening between glances or over the course of days.

That's not the case now, when the bright sky with its three suns is wiped away in an explosion of blue light, right at sunrise on the morning of January 1st. The light pulses across the sky in uneven blazes, sending out lattices of what might be lightning or something worse. There's no moon. No brightness. Just this lightning-storm brilliance in space, shedding little light on the world below.

And the suns don't come back on. As the day wears on, the supernova brightness in the sky starts to fade out and no new light appears. The sky is static and black, with no stars, no moons, no suns. The mild rolling blackouts that started with the opening of the relaxation room intensify with the sudden loss of solar power, as the backup systems try to compensate for the increased use of power.

For a moment, power goes out in Anchor entirely, leaving the place plunged into darkness.

The darkness doesn't last. Thanks to those generators everyone worked so hard to sort out, the backup systems struggle back to life, keeping the lights on and the bar, kitchen, and agricultural supports open, but there are some things that the limited power just can't cover.

b. tower of babelfish.

The first, and perhaps the most noticeable system to start failing, are the auto-translation programs. While not affecting every area in Anchor equally, communication between those who speak different languages is going to be a lot more difficult. The effects are spotty, coming and going, sometimes completely failing, leaving only people's naturally-spoken languages available. Sometimes it just struggles, making conversations sound a lot more like babelfish translations than recognizable speech. People themselves seem to be affected differently by the translation struggles, depending on who and where they are. There's no rhyme or reason to when and how it fails. But the problem persists through most of the month.

c. the hidden passage.

The second system failure is harder to spot.

At the end of what seemed to be a maintenance hallway, a set of doors have appeared from behind what used to be a shielded hologram of a dead end. The doors stick out from their surroundings: thick metal, barred heavily from the outside. A clear attempt to keep something locked away inside, not to keep people from entering.

For those adventurous enough, or foolish enough, to wrestle the locks open, a problem will reveal itself. A short flight of stairs, leading down into an area flooded by murky water. It's hard to see more than branching halls down below.

Those who choose to brave the water will find a hallway lined with bulkheads and sealed doorways, all guarding rooms that could be accessed with the right combination of smarts and brute force. It's the question of what would be ruined by the water if the doors are opened that might give people pause. What kind of secrets could be wiped out or destroyed if the doors are forced and the water passes through the bulkheads? Can the water be drained? How?

But there is one room open, or mostly open, where the bulkhead doors didn't quite manage to seal when the area flooded. It'll be a squeeze, for bigger characters, but the flooded room beyond contains artifacts preserved behind glass - strange medallions, strings of glowing beads, broken sceptres, arrows fletched with feathers from creatures no one has ever seen before.

Only one object isn't sealed away. It's a handful of small orbs, with shifting colors, held in place by a shield array that still seems to function, for the most part. They can be touched, can even be removed from the stand with the right know-how or a willingness to smash stuff.

But once an orb is touched, the colors start to spin more rapidly. The more it's handled, the brighter and faster the colors shift. Whether it takes hold immediately or not is up to you, but those who handled the orb will find the bright colors start to glow under the surface of their skin, in the shape of veins, glowing bright for a few minutes before fading. And those people bring a different kind of contagion back with them to the surface. Memory loss, communicated from one person to the next via contact. It can be partial or complete, or not happen to your character at all - they can be an unwitting "carrier" of the effects, passing it on without experiencing the losses themselves. The loss can last from hours to weeks, with carriers being "infected" for the duration of that time.

It also leaves behind magical traces, ones that don't fade after memories return. The cleverest might start to wonder if it wasn't a kind of inoculation, though against what, it remains to be seen.

Navigation.

Comments

[hypothermic]

Gentle isn't Leonard's thing. Leonard doesn't take care of people, and he sure as hell doesn't baby them. Leonard looks out for number one. Anyone who argues that fact is asking to be made into an ice-sculpture before they ruin his street cred.

"Yeah, you can say *thank you* for that. I know I'm cute and all, but you were gonna kill yourself just to keep cuddling. I'm not into corpses. Dead, you're of zero value to me. Alive, well..." Len squints at him, the corner of his mouth twitching against a smirk.

"I can think of a few practical uses."

Flirting is something he does, and it's far more comfortable than wearing what he's really feeling on the outside. Truth is, no one wants to hear that shit. Nobody like a sob-story if it doesn't involve lost kittens or happy endings. People say they do, because it makes them feel good to pretend to be a good person, but the minute you're more effort than ego-boost, they're off to the next charity case.

Talking to Kabal is the closest Len's gotten to honest since he arrived.

Even now, he can't quite keep up that mask of feigned indifference. It's just so much goddamn effort, and Kabal is in no state to give a fuck.

"Yeah, I'm loving this. Exactly how I wanted to spend my night. Being choked out by a half-dead dude, and wrestling him into the bathtub while he flails like a big, muscular baby." If Len rolled his eyes any harder he would give himself a seizure. Still, he checks the temperature of the water with one hand and Kabal's skin with the either.

Slowly, slowly, Kabal's finally chilling the fuck out.

"Listen, you're the only guy here who isn't a total square, and I might need a big, stupid bastard like you to have my back if I get myself in a bind with the goody-goody's." He punctuates the sentence by booping Kabal's masked snoot with a cool smile.

"Don't tell me you wouldn't love a reason to fight people. Especially since this reason is so hot he's cold, and might bang you."

[kaballin]

"I was not cuddling." The emphasis he puts on the word underscoring the fact that he was absolutely without a doubt cuddling Len and would have continued to do so until his brain melted from fever. He frowns, not wanting to think about what he was doing when Len moves on to talk about something significantly better.

"Practical huh? There some heavy lifting you need done?" Because now he's thinking about lifting Leonard and smashing him up against a wall which would be a way better way to spend the time than sitting in a fucking tub. Alright, maybe right now isn't the best time, since he just had to be manhandled into the water, so any attempt to get the imprint of the tile wall on Len's back is going to have to wait.

Kabal is not a patient man.

"Oh I would love a reason to bash some faces in. But let's be clear here, I don't need a reason. It'd be nice, but not exactly necessary. You get me?"

Which is his pretense of making sure that Len know's he doesn't need him. Cuz that's verging on having an emotion or getting sentimental or some kind of crap he's a little too lightheaded to parse right now. Just two guys with some mutually beneficial needs here.

He twists in the tub to face Len a little better, nodding to Len's lacy little panties, "You got more of those? Because I make no promises I won't fucking ruin 'em."

There's not much about Kabal that's gentle and he's been wanting to rip those off him since he first sauntered out of the bathroom.

[hypothermic]

Len gets him. He's never known this kind of exchange to function any other way. Some people love, and are loved. Len isn't one of them. Has never been. Saying I love you in the Snart household was the same as lifting up your shirt and asking to be sucker-punched.

"Ruin these, and I ruin you." and that's how they continue, bickering, flirting, picking small fights about anything and everything while ignoring the elephant in the room that is Len nursing Kabal out of the grave and back into some semblance of health.

Then there's the stumble back to the dead, more clumsy and exhausted than any drunks, and a wet, weak tumble onto the mattress. Kabal more alive than dead, but still pretty dead, and Len exhausted past the point of giving a fuck about anything but sleep.

At some point he yanks the comforter over them, because Kabal is shivering and clamouring again.

And Len thought he was high maintenance.

He's still asleep when the faux daylight shines through the small dormitory window, Len groans low, turning his face into his arm to block the light in a drowsy effort to fight off the morning.

Can there be some rest for the wicked?

[kaballin]

Kabal hadn't enjoyed his time in the tub. Granted he doesn't smell atrocious anymore because of that. And sure it had been better than Len scrubbing the skin off his arm so it'll heal, but at least that had been pain which he's well used to dealing with. The tub was caring and being taken care of and those are completely foreign concepts to him. Things he'd scoff at openly. So they've avoided talking about it, sniping at each other as an easy cover so they don't have to acknowledge what's really going on.

This food fight had taken an odd turn somewhere.

Even without the fever, Kabal is just shy of crushing Len to death like some bbq octopus wrapped around him. But the moment Len groans Kabal realizes where he is and what he's doing and backs away. Because he is not "soft" and he doesn't "cuddle." Len moves to try and block out the sun and those very soft and silky panties drag across Kabal's thigh and suddenly all his plans to get up and restart his tough guy routine of pretending nothings wrong, are put on hold in favor of wanting to see that tiny scrap of fabric balled up on the floor.

Or maybe kept on and pulled to the side.

Kabal is easygoing like that. Keeping his options open.

Sitting up (and taking all the sheets with his massive bulk) he inspects his bandaged arm, a pretense of pretending to not care that he's totally naked, and Len might as well be.

"Mornin' sunshine." He pulls the mask off to rub his eyes, and also to take in the view without seeing through the eyeholes of it. Get a nice good look at those options he'd been considering. Hm. They all seem equally desirable.

"Ready for round two of our fun little spa trip? The breakfast in bed part now I guess. Because I've got one hell of an appetite."

[hypothermic]

Gone are the sheets, along with the warmth of Kabal's body, and any chance of falling back to sleep.

"Why are you awake?" The man nearly died last night. Twice. Kabal should be unconscious, never mind asleep. Len figured he would wake up sometime in the afternoon, and shake Kabal awake long enough to get food and water down his gullet, and check his arm for any signs of infection.

Instead, he wakes up to Kabal is sitting over him, dick practically hanging in his face. Raring to go in spite of of his injuries, or how those injuries might affect them if they actually get down to business.

Another groan, hand over his eyes to block out the sun. A cat-like stretch. Fingers curling in towards his palms like claws. Kabal is dangerously close to getting swiped.

"Do you really have an appetite right now, or are you just trying to get one last screw in before you finally kick the bucket?"

[kaballin]

"What I don't get a choice of my last meal or anything?" By his way of thinking, choosing Len, the guy who tried to kill him and froze his arm to the bone in the first place, is a high honor. And here Kabal is ready to fuck through the pain like a trooper. So selfless.

"Guess I'll just wait for the next guy sauntering around in silky shit. Sure are a lot of people like that around here. I'll take my pick." He runs his hand along Len's hip, fingers tracing the lace of those fancy undergarments, but he braces his upper body, fully ready for Len to fucking deck him for touching him. He wouldn't even deny he deserved it.

But he needed to know what those felt like in case he does end up dying in the next few days.

"Why? Am I keeping you from some pressing appointment? Got a date with the food fiasco we left in the kitchen?"

[hypothermic]

That woke him up.

"Got your pick, huh?" There's nothing that gets Len going like a little competition. Len doesn't care about being the best, it's the challenge that excites him. Whether it's the promise of an uncrackable safe, breaking out of prisons designed to keep him locked up, or testing the patience and restraint of a man/woman/other dangerous enough to kick his ass as readily as they'd screw him.

Lean shifts up onto his elbows, crossing one long, long leg over the other. He tilts his head from one side to the other, observing Kabal like a cat does a spider, or some other small, fragile creature whose only purpose is to be chewed up and spit out by something higher up the food chain.

After some fun. Going in for the kill right off the bat isn't half as satisfying.

"I strongly doubt there's anyone around here quite like me, and definitely not in these." A shift in his position, pulling his knees in closer. Kabal gets an eyeful of said thighs, silky panties, and the ass they're attached to, but not without the distraction of his casually bouncing foot.

"What are you, the big wolf on campus? You telling me you're the strongest, hardest, scariest motherfucker in this joint?" A flit of his eyelashes, scanning Kabal from dick to face and back again. Casing the joint for valuable goods. Anything he'd like to fence.

"Cause if you've got your pick, and I'm clearly superior in every way to you, then I have more than my pick of guys. And I love a good fiasco." Especially the one happening right here, right now, between two grown men who were trying to kill each other less than forty-eight hours ago. Len sighs, stretching his arms above his head. Entirely, shamelessly unbothered by their current position.

"So I guess I've got a lot of appointments I could be taking. What makes yours so important?" A smirk that's more eyes than mouth, the amusement in the crook of his brow.

Is it really a pressing matter if Kabal isn't going mad with lust or wrath?

[kaballin]

"I've had my share."

Meaning he'd boned the only person worthwhile in this cesspool. In a place full of teenagers, goody-goodies, straight up cops, and robots, the pickings aren't as good as he claims. No use in telling Len that though, if he's half as smart as the game he talks he's probably already noticed the lack of snack-worthy items on the menu.

"Sure am." Cocky, but he sounds like he's not even bragging, just stating a fact. "You seen anyone else out there that can stand up to me? Cuz I sure as fuck haven't and I've been itching for a good fight since I got here."

That look, sizing him up, it hasn't gone unnoticed, and he leans back on his good arm, knowing it'll make his shoulders look even bulkier. Two can play at that preening game.

"I'm just trying to help you out by making sure you're not settling. Not everyone around here can appreciate what you're offering the way I can." Said more like a growl, a promise of appreciating him right into the springs of the mattress. Len didn't pull away, so that hand goes right back to the silky goods he's sporting, thumb tracing his hipbone. "Thought you had some practical applications for keeping me alive. Heavy lifting and all that."

His fingers briefly tighten in his skin, fully ready to start said heavy lifting.

[hypothermic]

It's been a while since someone looked at him that way. More hungry than hateful. Len likes when he can see his face.

No one around here can or would appreciate what he's offering the way Kabal can.

The one man who stuck by his side, through thick and thin, no matter how ugly or desperate things got, can barely stand the sight of him. Stayed alive for hundreds, maybe thousands of years, just for the chance to kill him with his own hands.

Heroes are disgusted by him, judge him for who he is and where he's from, and the assholes he used to call his peers think he's sold out.

Being good doesn't pay, and being bad, really bad... doesn't feel as good as it used to.

Nothing feels good anymore.

Except for the way Kabal is touching him. That feels kind of good. He's got rough hands. His thumb callused to hell and back. Len already knows he likes the way burnt, twisted skin feels beneath his fingertips, and men who run hotter than is safe for themselves or others.

"Depends. Would you kill someone for me?" As soft as Len knows how. He drags a pointed toe up the length of Kabal's thigh and back down again, eyes stormy in spite of the sunlight. Dangerous seas ahead.

Someone's in for a rough voyage.

[kaballin]

The muscle of his thigh twinges, a giveaway that Kabal not only likes what he sees, but that he's a ball of coiled lust ready to erupt at any moment. He's holding it together now, but it won't last. It can't with how hungry he is.

"I kill whoever I want, whenever I want." Which doesn't answer the question at all. His eyes flick down, taking in Len like he's a piece of meat but one that's dangerous. As if analyzing the best way to come at a caged animal so it can't get at him through the bars.

"You have anyone in mind, or is this a hypothetical exercise?"

His frozen, damaged arm is still a mess, the bandage isn't leaking, but he's nowhere near healed. The fact he can move it at all is a testament to how used to pain he is, but also how much he is not thinking with brain anymore. Well not about that anyway. He has made some calculations about his next move because time is ticking before he needs to pull the mask back on, and he wants to get as much leering in as he can before that.

"I'm not a very good student if that's the case."

His hands grip at Len's waist, roughly dragging him closer, sitting back on his knees so he can attempt to pull him onto his lap. This verbal sparring is cute, but he's only got a limited supply of patience.

[hypothermic]

Len allows himself to be pulled. Kabal is strong, but he's still half-dead and down to one arm. Len could take him, if he really wanted to.

He looks down into the other man's eyes, dragging his knuckles against the edge of his scarred jaw. Chest to chest. His ass in Kabal's lap, thighs squeezing his hips. For balance.

You never know when someone might drop you.

"Answer the question. Would you kill for me, for this, yes or no?" A low, dangerous purr into Kabal's ear, warm breath fanning over his jugular. He wants this too, but Kabal isn't safe just yet.

Len's never met a cage he couldn't break out of.

[kaballin]

His hands hold onto Len's ass, thumbs braced against his hip to keep him right there. Right where he wants him. Probably tighter than he needs to, but he's just this side of taking the growing uh.. urgency between them and slamming Len into whatever surface is most convenient. The hunger is evident in his eyes, and even if he wanted to hide it, he couldn't.

"Fuck yeah I would." Right now, in this moment so close to getting some, he'd do just about anything to keep going.

[hypothermic]

Lucky for Kabal, Len wants to be held too tight, and roughed up. Wants to remember what it feels like to be wanted more than is safe or healthy. Wanted more than anyone or anything else. If Kabal fucks him hard enough, he might even believe it... at least until the afterglow wears off.

"Now that's what I wanted to hear." Len goes in for the kill, meshing their mouths together, his fingers sinking into the back of Kabal's neck like claws. Attacking him with tongue and teeth. Len doesn't kiss everyone he messes around with, but Kabal's twisted lips were asking for it.

Either Kabal is feverish again, or Len's actually gotten hot for him, because the room is getting awfully warm.

[kaballin]

Even before needing to wear a mask to breathe Kabal wasn't a big fan of kissing. It felt weirdly intimate, something you did with people you cared about. And Kabal didn't care about anyone but Kabal.

And yet in this moment he doesn't want anything but this, kissing back as if they're going to war with their tongues. His fingers tighten, one arm moving around Len's back to keep him right where he is. Two predators that both think they've caught their prey.

It can't last. At some point Kabal knows his toasted lungs will start to protest, and he's all fired up and raring to cut to the chase anyway. But hey, he's enjoying it now.

He breaks off to get one last good look at Len, lips parted as he pants, Kabal's hair a mess from Len's fingers tearing at it. And it's time for him to make his move.

With his good arm he holds Len close, supporting his weight with one bulky arm, muscles flexing with the effort, but then he's sitting up on his knees and slamming Len against the wall the bed is up against. Pressing his back into the metal wall that's probably cold as hell, but Kabal would fuck him into broken glass right now if that's what it took. His damaged arm reaches behind him to grab the mask one handed and slide it back on with practiced ease, not even pausing to break eye contact.

He has Len right where he wants him, but not exactly how he wants him. Hooking his thumbs in those panties he gives a sharp tug, not pulling them off but a threat that he's moments away from ripping them to pieces.

"I'm gonna owe you a pair of these."

[hypothermic]

Len hisses as his back makes contact with cool metal. A testament to how hot and heavy they're getting, the small room quickly turning into a sauna.

It's not easy to raise Len's temperature. Plenty of men and women have try, and less than a handful succeed. Cold isn't just a moniker, it's a state of mind. There's safety in frigidity. A frozen heart can't be broken.

His nails dig into Kabal's scarred shoulders as he grapples for stability, legs looping around his waist. There's no stopping this now. Len's between a steel wall and a veryhard place, and even though the warmth of their combined bodies is dizzying, he can't get enough of it.

Maybe there's such a thing as too cold. Without Mick's fire in his life, Len is beginning to feel the bite of his own frost. It starts as a dull throb, and when Len's alone, really alone, just a tiny speck in the universe no one would notice or care was missing, it fucking aches.

Every day hurts a little more than the last.

"Call it rent." Len bites Kabal's ear, hard, tongue tracing the edge of the shell. His hair smells like burnt ozone and sweat.

It reminds him of Mick. At least until he feels the hot press of Kabal's cock against his thigh, and his mind goes blissfully blank for a beat. The only time Len's brain truly stops ticking is when his body takes control.

He needs to get laid more.

"You got a condom--" More breathed than spoken, because Kabal isn't the only one who's panting.

[kaballin]

Well someone is still thinking with their brain, and that someone is absolutely not Kabal. He twinges at the bite, eyes rolling in their sockets. That's all the encouragement he needs and he gives a soft grunt and his hands tighten as he rips those panties into pieces, his fingers going through the lace and tearing it away from Len's skin that he's noticed is far warmer than he'd expect from someone going around calling themselves 'Captain Cold.'

"So I gotta get another one of these first of the month?" Silky underwear. Ripping them off Len. One of those.

His hands are back to digging into the meat of Len's ass, trying to somehow get him even closer when they're already pressed together, chest to chest, Kabal's cock resting next to Len's.

There's a low groan, which telegraphs the answer to that question before he finds his voice again. Because no he doesn't. They're lucky he even has lube in his room because his last night of debauchery hadn't been in here.

"No." His hands are still digging in, but he's stopped moving, panting breath as he kneels there with Len's legs around him, wondering if he's actually going to have to stop and put on pants to go find some and finish what they started. He's in a position where he wouldn't have to, he could force the issue no matter what Len said. But he wouldn't, even if his cock is giving some pulsating reminders of how close they are to doing the deed.

[hypothermic]

Kabal says no, and Len is expecting him to keep going the way men do. Make Len shove his hands away, or push him off. Maybe onto the floor.

Catching something from a one-night-sand is the kind of stupid, entirely pointless risk Leonard Snart doesn't take. He may be an adrenaline junkie, but Len gets his highs robbing banks and one-upping superheroes. Not from driving without a seatbelt, or playing STD roulette.

It occurs to Len, in the moment of silence after, that Kabal could take him. Crushed between his body and the wall, Len's never been more aware of the fact this man is a killing machine, built like a gladiator with the blood-lust of a mercenary. That kind of strength sends a chill down his spine in more ways than one.

But Kabal stopped, and that's another kind of turn-on. One Len hasn't had a whole lot of exposure to. The rough sex, the grunting, the half-fight-half-fuck with a definite winner and loser, that's what Len knows.

Whatever this is, it hits him hard.

He doesn't usually break his own rules, but sometimes Leonard the man rebels against Leonard the mastermind and ekes out a win.

"Whatever." Len reaches a hand down between them to grab both their cocks, grinding them together. Kabal isn't the only one getting near-painful reminders. Rubbing pre-cum everywhere. Making a mess.

If that isn't a green light, what is?

[kaballin]

There's a contented sort of growl from behind the mask as Len gives a clear go-ahead for Kabal to keep at it. Immediately his hands are back on the prowl, grabbing at available flesh, digging and pressing with a harshness that may leave bruises on that pale skin. His hips snap up into Len's hand, seeking even more. That slip-sliding feeling is real good, and brings Kabal's brain temporarily back on line.

Does he want to do this dry?

No, he really doesn't, this isn't some one and done prison fuck. Also the last time he'd been in prison the mask wasn't a mandatory part of his fuck-fit and he could use spit. Not something he really wants to do now.

His injured arm stops it's assault of Len's meaty backside, and digs around in the crevice between the bed and the wall, unearthing a few socks before finding a tube of lube out from the depths.

"Ruining the theme here, I should have grabbed something ice cream scented." Because the intimacy lounge had not disappointed in variety of lube flavors and scents. But since this is mostly for Kabal to use on Kabal it doesn't smell like anything. Missed opportunity.

Flicking the cap open one-handed without looking he deftly coats his fingers. There's something to be said for the whole 'Practice makes Perfect' adage because he's got his fingers slicked up and pressed against Len all in a matter of seconds.

[hypothermic]

"I'll take anything that isn't menthol." That kind of icy gets real hot fast. Not that he's tried it or anything. Seriously, he hasn't. Ask Mick about the kind of stuff that involves nearly burning your dick off. Len prefers to keep his attached and unblistered.

He shifts at the contact with a sharp intake of breath, because Kabal's rough fingers are touching him somewhere very sensitive, and men are never half as gentle as they should be. He usually does this part himself, to make sure it's done right, and that some dumb bull doesn't go waving his giant dick around Len's china shop before he's ready. Len doesn't need or want to be handled with kid-gloves, but if he's not going to be sitting down tomorrow it better be for the right reasons.

Once a control freak, always a control freak.

"Easy does it, big boy." Eyes sharp. Jaw clenching with a visible pulse of masseter muscle. Silently bracing himself. Len is a calculating man. Even in bed. He assesses every risk, and plans for everything.

Except for when he doesn't. Like now. Screwing a man he met less than forty-eight hours ago without a condom, or the next best protection, a firearm in the bed-side drawer. His cold gun is across he room, far out of his reach, leaning uselessly against the wall.

Every part of Len should be on guard right now, and usually, even mid-fuck, he is.

He keeps on rubbing their hard-ons together, because he likes the way Kabal's body reacts, knowing he needs this just as badly, and he's not the only one getting desperate. This is the right kind of heat. It helps him relax, and exhale when the threat of penetration gives way to the real thing. Even if it makes him stupid and reckless at the same time. No one's perfect.

Least of all a liar, (master) thief, and murderer such as himself.

"Screw this up, and I'm never screwing you again." A low, purred threat, as the nail of his thumb scrapes deliciously slow over the throbbing vein stemming the underside of Kabal's dick.

[kaballin]

Definitely not a one and done sort of fuck.

"A test drive huh?" He gives a shudder, that delicate blend of pleasure-pain from Len's fingernail travelling right up his spine, tingling in the best way.

There's something else there that Kabal doesn't let himself react to, the thought that there's things other than one-night stands. Which he knows, he'd had that for a while back in his world, but he'd considered it a fluke, Kabal happened to be the best option of a bunch of enslaved losers in the Netherrealm. Situational. Both needing something from the other in a mutually beneficial way.

Kind of like this.

That's the kind of deep thinking that Kabal does not do well, so he lets the fact that Len mentioned repeat visits wash over him without acknowledging it. Now is definitely not the time for thinking with parts other than his dick.

Or his hands.

Len's right about one thing, he's definitely not as gentle as he should be. Not for a lack of caring, but because roughness is a major part of who he is and in the heat of the moment it's taking everything in him to not just charge into battle as it were. The pads of his fingers give a few swipes down towards Len's balls before one forces it's way in. A few pistoning pumps, deeper each time, and he can feel how Len's muscles tense, see the harshness of his jawline, trying to judge when to do more. He curls that finger forward, dragging it down and slowly out.

"Got any other threats for me?"

[hypothermic]

Turns out there is a way to shut Len up.

It's hard to think of a new, interesting threat, or anything at all, when he's being fingered. Kabal's got the broken-in mitts of a fighter. Knuckles thick and gnarled from pummeling skulls, fingers callused and scarred to hell and back.

Some people might find that a turn-off. Not Len. This is what he knows, and what he wants
. Somewhere between nature and nurture. Men with skin that looks and feels like rawhide with a personality to match don't bat an eyelash at Len's scarred body, or how hard he needs to be fucked in order to feel anything but his own hurt.

He hasn't been with that kind of man (or any other) in a long time. Kabal's touch is rough, and Len is painfully tight. His breathing quick and shallow until the worst of the discomfort is over, and the finger inside of him feels less like an intruder and more like a guest.

Len's adaptable like that. When he wants something, really wants something, he gets it.

And right now, Len wants this more than anything. All he's wanted for days, weeks, months is burnt skin beneath his hands, and strong arms to hold him.

Kabal isn't Mick, but he's something like him. Close enough.

Or, maybe he's different in all the right ways.

Right now, Kabal's the only person who wants Len back. That's got to count for something.

"More." A low, strained growl. Through bared teeth. One hand wrapped around their cocks, the other gripping onto Kabal's shoulder so tight his knuckles are white. Blue eyes as bright and wild as any wolf's.

How's that for a threat?

[kaballin]

That's not a threat. It's almost the opposite of one and Kabal gives an approving little hum before continuing. Because that request sounded real. Authentic. Like Len actually wants this and it isn't some pity fuck because Kabal's on the verge of death. Lots of people did some amount of dirty talk in bed: harder, faster, more, but they were just words, things someone had heard in some shitty porn and thought it was part of getting laid in the back room at an underground fight club. The louder and faker the better. Especially people getting their rocks off by slumming with an actual felon and murderer.

But this was different.

Not that he knew anything about Len really, especially when he'd spent half their time together delirious with fever, but he can tell that Len wouldn't say anything if he didn't mean it. If he didn't want something it wouldn't be happening.

Which is one hell of a fucking turn-on. So Kabal obliges, with more. Which also means rougher because Kabal's thick fingers, covered in gnarled skin, aren't designed for delicate work the way Len's are. He'd personally like more as well. More of what Len is doing with those safe-cracking fingers, more of the way Len is looking at him, more actual fucking and less fingering.

It's obvious he's getting a little impatient now, pulling his fingers free before resuming what he was doing, waiting for Len to be something other than painfully tight. If this wasn't someone he wanted to avoid pissing off so he'll get a repeat fuck later on, he'd be balls deep in him already. But that tiny bit of restraint is starting to unravel with the force of how much he wants this.

[hypothermic]

Two fingers is almost enough to make him moan. His head snaps back, eyes shutting tight. Yes, it hurts, but the pain goes hand in hand with pleasure. Len doesn't know how to live any other way. No risk, no reward. Len doesn't do moderation. Small-time jobs don't interest him, and neither do small-time dicks.

Len's just as eager to get to the main event as his sparring partner. All this is just a warm-up for the little death-match, which ideally won't kill either of them. He could and probably should be more concerned with Kabal's wounds, but hey, Kabal came onto him.

Judging by the state of their hard-ons, throbbing between them and ready to blow, it's too late to turn back now without big blue consequences.

Besides, Len always-almost-sometimes-usually keeps his promises. To the people who matter, anyway.

And Kabal is getting dangerously close.

Len should be more concerned about that, too. The way his body is responding to the touch of a man he hardly knows, who was trying to murder him a couple days ago, like it's never wanted anything more. Len is tight, but his muscles aren't pushing Kabal out. They're taking him in. Demanding more of him. Greedy and self-destructive, like the rest of Len.

The stretch hurts so good. Filling the emptiness inside of him in a beautiful, albeit temporary way nothing else can recreate. Toys aren't the same as the hot, rough touch of another human, and porn can't compare to the dark eyes staring down at him, or their simple, honest, animal intent.

Fucking himself open isn't the same as being worked open by the man about to rearrange his guts. Len kneels to no man, but he'll spread his legs for the right one if it means scratching that itch.

Kabal will never own him, but Len would love to feel him try.

"Are you waiting for an invitation?"

Eyes slitted, kiss-swollen lips stretched into a cat-like smirk. Len can't resist teasing Kabal, even as his sweat soaks the sheets, dripping down the backs of his trembling thighs. Hole pulsing around Kabal's fingers.

Invite sent.

[kaballin]

"Hn." There's just something about a man who knows what he wants and how to get it. It's been a while since someone has verbally sparred with Kabal the way that Len does. Usually he's talking to himself, but Len gives as good as he gets, even better sometimes. Especially considering the compromising position he's in.

Invite received and accepted.

He slides his fingers free, part of him wanting to draw it out and make Len suffer with that cold emptiness, the feeling of the burning stretch suddenly gone. But he's way too worked up to wait even a second longer. There's also the ever present danger that if he stops moving he'll have to acknowledge and deal with the fact that his arm is in agony, shockwaves all up to his shoulder and down his elbow. But right now in the heat of the moment he can focus on a much different sort of hot, one that drowns out that searing pain.

Don't think he didn't see that almost moan. Kabal's not gentle, and if he hadn't spent that time working Len open the way Kabal straight up impales him might have been incredibly painful. He's still supporting Len's full weight with his hands under his thighs, too bad he had to back off a bit and can't keep crushing him into the wall and also start thrusting.

There's a feral sort of grunt of approval as he finally gets what he's been craving. From the look of things what they've both been craving.

But Kabal doesn't just want to fuck him, he wants to hear Len say his name. To have those delicate fingers digging gouges into his back. He's a man with a plan.