Prescription for (in)Sanity

By Rewy All Rights Reserved ©

Scifi / Drama

Sweet Taste

Another night, another fuck, another dollar to feed his addiction.

Ciaran buttoned up his pants and swatted the hand away that lingered on his thigh, scowling down at the man that lay on the tiny, stained mattress in the run down motel. "Stay," the man slurred, halfway gone on coke and climax.

"You don't have enough cash," Ciaran snapped as he pocketed the few bills he had earned before pulling on his black tank top. He was probably getting off on the memory of sex at the moment and Ciaran didn't want to hear him. He was beyond that, past the deed and working on his next one. Licking chapped lips he opened the exit door and walked out into the cold. An icy wind hit him immediately and he shivered, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing his head against the wind. The walk back to where the rave was wouldn't be too long and maybe he'd find another idiot to screw with.

Pulling out a cigarette he cupped his hands over the end and tried to light it. The wind blew it out and he cursed, halting in his stride as he tried to light it again. He didn't notice the limo pull up beside him until a voice called out to him, jerking his attention away from his useless attempts at lighting a cigarette in the face of a storm wind.

"Need some help?"

He glared at the clean cut person staring at him from the confines of the long vehicle; calculating blues eyes framed by blonde hair looking at him from behind oval glasses in thin frames. Ciaran wouldn't place him more than thirty and looking for a cheap time. If he wanted something more sophisticated than a trick off the street he looked like he could have afforded it.

'Hell, I do need another trick to cover my next hit,' he thought to himself as he pocketed the lighter. "Perhaps," he said around the cigarette.

"Want a ride?"

Ciaran cocked a hand on his hip, tilted his head, and chewed on the filter. "How much you asking?"

"What are you offering?"

"Whatever you want."

The door opened. "Get in," the person inside the car said. Ciaran clambered inside the limo without a word, sitting on one of the rows of seats. The young man in the black suit closed the door and rolled up the window. "You can smoke in here," he told Ciaran as the limo pulled out into the street.

Ciaran didn't need to be told twice. He lit up his cigarette and took a drag, sharp green eyes running up and down the older man's body. "What do you want?" he asked calmly.

"How far do you go?"

Ciaran rolled his eyes. "I trick," was all he said. Answer enough.

The other man pulled out a folded bill and showed it to the youth. "This is all I have," he said. "What will it buy me?"

Another drag on the cigarette. "You get me going down on you."

He tossed the bill across the space between them. Ciaran caught it easily and pocketed it before he slung his skinny body between the man's legs, hands deftly undoing the belt and zipper of his pants. "Uswian?" he asked around his cigarette, not looking up.

"How did you guess?" was the reply.

"Accent," came the muttered answer as he pulled the pants down his hips before lifting him out of his underwear. Ciaran removed the cigarette from his mouth and braced his arms on the man's legs, hands clutching at his hips even as he took him in his mouth. Ciaran heard the man suck in his breath and then he forced himself to ignore him and concentrate on the job at hand. Throat contracting around the hardening member in his mouth he stroked his tongue up and down the smooth length.

The Uswian bit back a moan and watched in erotic fascination as the teen moved his head up and down between his legs, his talented mouth making him hard faster than anyone else ever had. White lightning flickered over his nerves and he hissed, thrusting up into the wet mouth that coaxed the pleasure out of him. Abandoning himself to the teen's ministrations he let himself go and nearly saw stars, he came so hard.

Breathing raggedly he blinked down at the Qolian youth as he licked him clean and readjusted his pants. Lifting his hand he put the cigarette back into his mouth and rocked back on his heels, empty green eyes staring at him. The cigarette had only burned down halfway.

"You're good," he whispered.

The teen shrugged and took a drag. "Stop the car."

The limo rolled to the curb and he propelled himself out onto the street, slamming the door shut. The window rolled down. "What's your name?" the Uswian asked him.

He bit down on the cigarette. "Raythe," he replied.

The other man smiled slightly. "That's not your real name."

"It is now," Ciaran snarled.

The smile turned into a smirk. "Be seeing you, then, Raythe." The window rolled up and the limo pulled away.

"I just bet you will," Ciaran muttered as he headed down the street in the direction of the rave. His hands were shaking and he was riding on a high that he never felt unless he shot some pure shit. He rolled the cigarette across his lips, tasting the lingering traces of semen that he found there with his tongue.

Another night, another fuck, another addiction to be found.

The Uswian had tasted sweet.


Silja studied Ciaran with a sharp eye, sipping sparingly at her martini. The eccentric youth was sitting on a stool, staring down into a mug of dark beer that was barely touched. He hadn't even shot up once that evening, which was strange enough as it was, but he didn't even have his usual smirk in place and that worried her. Her mask was sweet indifference. His was a smiling face.

"What's wrong?" she finally asked him.

He shrugged.

She stared. "My God. No words of wisdom from you? Did you take a bad hit or something?"

"Nope," he retorted softly.

She tilted her head. "Oh?"

He lifted his head, piercing green eyes catching hers. She studied the look on his face and frowned. There was a hunger there in his eyes-a need, a want - that she hadn't seen since he had tried to kill himself by slitting his wrist some months ago.

That had happened after a hitman had beaten him into unconsciousness after raping him with a knife, leaving him a limp body of pain. The man had been sent by Ciaran's father. He had died two days later. People on the street took care of their own. Still, Silja had barely found him in time to stop the bleeding in his wrist and drag him to the local clinic. The hunger of that time had been for death.

She wondered what it was now. "You're not going to elaborate on this again?"

Ciaran closed his eyes, remembering something that he had thought lost. A devious grin tugged the corners of his lips. Finally he shook his head, opening his green eyes, full of want.

Silja shrugged and slid off her stool. "If you say so. I'm going to go dance. Want to join me?"

"Later. I'm going to finish my drink first," he told her.

"Fine."

He watched her leave and raised the mug to his lips, taking a deep gulp. He knew she was worried about him. There were certain people he vented on about his internal struggles and needs. He even now couldn't put a finger on it, but there was something that absolutely fascinated him about the way people showed concern of his doings. He smiled down into his beer and chuckled.

"Laughing all alone is not a healthy sign Raythe," a familiar voice said into his ear as an arm slid around his waist. "And that's what makes you such a great entrepreneur. You're crazy enough to deliver anything."

"Seven," Ciaran said without any emotion in his voice before forcing another smile on his lips. The brunette young man chuckled and tilted his head up, kissing him. Ciaran returned the gesture mechanically. Seven's hand slid down his stomach to cup between his legs. "Someone was asking for you," Seven told him when he broke away.

"What else is new?" Ciaran replied.

Seven smirked down at him and flexed his hand. "Too bad you're your own master. I could make a killing off your cuts."

Ciaran arched an eyebrow and removed Seven's hand. "You want me? Pay up."

Seven smiled. "I don't want you tonight. Someone else does. Come on."

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