Entropy
"Be true to your Dick."
― Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
You were pissed. You were pissed right the fuck off, not because your kid just straight up told you he wants to fuck you, but because he thinks it gives him the right to not give a single flying fuck about rules. Not just your rules, laws, some of which can be downright idiotic, but he's seventeen and sneaking around to go to bars and sleep with men twice his age. He's showing up drunk and not even trying to hide it, which really gets to you because he knows that you don't tolerate shit like that. The audacity of this kid is going to kill you, really.
Not to mention, your nose hurts like hell; he's going to pay for pulling a stunt like that. Although, you must say, his punch has improved. You don't feel as bad fighting him like this when he has at least a fighting chance against you. You should really talk about the whole "I wanna ride your dick like a cowboy at the rodeo" thing, but you decide to hold it off until after your strife. You're feeling a lot of things about it, a lot of things that you want to delay even thinking about until you've made your point about his outright defiance lately.
"Might as well just beat the shit out of me, dude. Can't fight for shit when I'm drunk," he says as he comes through the door, sword already drawn. You ignore him. He should know how to fight, no matter the circumstances.
He's prepared for the first strike against his sword, blocking with his own before side stepping out of the way, but he wobbles, and it's just plain sloppy defense. He tries to get the next strike, but you block it without half a thought and when your swords slide away from each other, you can instantly swing back in a slash that very nearly catches his abdomen. He jumps back, losing his balance momentarily when he does, but he regains it and tries to take the next swing at you. It's a stupidly easy move that would allow you to disarm him from here, but you're not ready to let the fight end, so you just aim for his shoulder, nicking it.
It's enough to distract him for the half-second it takes you to kick his legs out from under him, sending him straight onto his ass. You slash at him below, but he has quick enough reflexes to both block and roll to the side all at once. There's not much he can do at this point, but he takes the opportunity to throw himself at your legs, taking ahold of one of them, blocking your strike from above with his other hand. He almost successfully makes you lose your balance, but you use the leverage from his hand to kick his face, a low blow at this point, but he's there and he punched you earlier so you can't really say you're sorry. His shades get pressed against his face, he looks visibly hurt in the nose, and you're pretty sure the force of your foot against his lip against his teeth cut his mouth. You, at the same time, are falling backwards, but you use the foot you kicked with to plant behind you, making you able to stop yourself from falling with considerable leg and back straining. You can hear your knee make a wet pop under the tension, but you shake it off and switch your stances to prepare for Dave getting up.
His next swing at you is clumsy, allowing you just step out of the way entirely. The way he followed through made him look like he was about to fall over. You strike before he's able to regain his balance, leaving a thin, shallow cut across his torso. There goes that shirt. He winces and hisses in pain, clutching at the area with his free hand. "Fuck," he says.
You remind him to be alert by flash stepping behind him and delivering a sharp blow to his back with your elbow. He spins around in an adrenaline-fueled second wind, but he's too disoriented to even block your swings, so you let him fall to his knees, clutching the area that's oozing blood. You don't even deign the end of the strife worthy of the symbolic kill gesture, instead sheathing your sword and helping him up, walking him to the door where you drag him downstairs.
You sit him in the bathroom, on the toilet, head leaning against the wall looking absolutely defeated while you grab the supplies you need from the medicine cabinet. It's a tight squeeze, but you manage to fit yourself in between him and the shower, giving you the room you need to patch up the cut on his chest.
You take off your gloves, and he looks at you like he's mystified to see it. "Take off your shirt," you say while washing your hands, and he complies. The collar skews his shades when it rubs past them, so he takes them off and holds onto them in his lap. You snatch the shirt from him, and press it to his chest firmly as you kneels down in front of him.
You hold the shirt there like that for a few minutes, just waiting for the cut to stop bleeding. It's not very deep, but it's long and diagonal across his chest. He tips his head back probably just to avoid looking at you, clutching the shades in his hands. He looks like a wreck without them, his eyes betraying his unwillingness to look at you, his hands betraying his frustration, and his drunkenness prohibiting him from doing anything about either of these things.
After the wound stops bleeding for the most part, you grab the towel hanging on the shower door, wetting it in the sink, and rub soap into it. You rub the towel across the cut, seeing Dave wince slightly as you do. When you're done, you toss the towel on the floor and grab the neosporin-like stuff, squeezing it out along the cut spreading it with your fingertips.
"I wish you wouldn't fucking do that," he says, nearly shuddering under your touch, Jesus christ, you wish he wouldn't do that, looking like you could wreck him if you wanted to, and hell, you probably can, not that he would mind at all. The thought sends a little wake up call to your dick. You don't need this right now. That isn't the message you should be sending right now.
You keep quiet, watching the way his torso moves when he breathes, made up of wiry muscles and scar-riddled skin, all of which were from you over the years. He's tried to build muscle like you, but he just gets more definition than bulk. He's attractive, to say the least. The way he looks at you doesn't help, because the thing deep inside you that longs for control and power tells you he's exactly what you want, exactly what you need, which makes you that much more certain that fucking him would be a mistake.
You reach for the wound tape and the small scissors, cutting small strips and laying them perpendicularly along the cut. "You want to talk about what you said earlier?" You ask, trying to sound comforting, but you think it might come off as a little condescending. You can't do the whole 'sensitive' thing.
"The gay bars part or the part where I admitted that I want you to fuck my brains out?" Dave asks with a sardonic edge to his voice.
"I'm not trying to attack you here," you say. Not verbally, you mean. You already finished your fight.
"There's nothing to talk about. I like you, it's wrong, we'll pretend I never said it and everything will be fine," he says. His face is caught halfway between mortified and no longer giving a shit.
You get the gauze from the sink, and begin covering the wound. "You know why it's wrong?" It feels like you're talking to a child, which maybe you should think about the fact that Dave is, technically, your child, but you've never liked the idea of parenting, making it feel like one big ironic farce.
"Socially unacceptable, and I mean man, the babies. Can't risk all those inbreeding deformities that comes with incest," he says, again being facetious.
"Yeah, well you could argue that incest is all fine and ethical so long as babies are left out of the picture," you say, taping the end of the gauze to itself so that it stays in place and is pulled taut. You glance up as you say it, and it's a mistake because you can see right into his eyes, where there's an obvious glimmer of hope. Fuck, not what I meant. "But the real issue is family dynamics. Shit is breeding grounds for power imbalance issues."
Youare a neon sign of power imbalance issues. You just need him to know that you are the bad guy in this situation, that your own fucked up psychological profile will be what destroys you both if you don't have some self control. You are, at your very core, a puppet master. The way Dave looks at you now, you can see how much he's hanging onto your every word, looking at you like he's god damn desperate and it's killing you. By telling you, he's given you power. He is putting everything in your hands, and it's taking all the self control in the world not to use it. You're afraid to say that you're tempted to lean forward and kiss him, give him everything that he wants, and you know, it's more than just finding you attractive. It's a deep kind of longing, and it's eating away at the dark thing inside you that wants to have control. You're tempted for all the wrong reasons.
"Why are you telling me?" Dave asks as you gather the supplies you've left around, organizing them and putting them back into the medicine cabinet.
"Because you need to understand," you say. You need him to understand that you are not what he wants, not what he needs in a romantic partner.
"Point fucking taken, now can we get out of here or what?" He asks.
You ignore his question. "Find someone your own age, will you?" You ask. You think it's a reasonable request, something you should say as a guardian, another forced, trite way of protecting him.
He stares at you for a moment, before saying, "You don't fucking get it, do you?" You stare back at him in response. "I can't find someone my own age, much less find someone else at all, because they're not you. And believe me, it's not for lack of trying." He still hasn't put on his shades, his face completely readable to you. There's a spark of anger in his eyes, and his lip has a miniscule twitch in disgust at himself. He's a wonder where you went wrong, what you did to make him like this.
Your brain is waging an internal war against itself; your conscience is sending waves of guilt at you because there's another part of you that loves the sound of desperation in Dave's voice. You're attracted to his desperation, for fuck's sake. If that doesn't make you sick, you don't know what does.
Except for maybe the fact that you find yourself walking back over to him, leaning down to press your lips to his. He shakes slightly against you, unsure of himself and unsure what you're doing. He raises his hands to hover near your torso, but doesn't dare touch you until you're parting his lips with your tongue, deepening the kiss and sliding your own hands against his bare hips and back. His lips taste like salt and iron from where one of them was split. He pulls you closer and tries to hold your bodies together like the mere thought of electrons separating you scares him, and you're falling in love with the way he kisses like he will never be able to kiss you again.
And there it is, in the front of your mind; the knowledge that you will do this again, and again and again, despite your inevitably futile attempts at self control, because you've already lost the battle. Kissing him is a mistake that will lead to so much more, a chain reaction that you are as good as powerless to stop. It's a domino effect, fundamental physics in the transfer of energy, that one process leads to another through a long chain of interconnectedness and dependency on this very first choice to give into temptation. It's a classic tale, and one in which you have found yourself to be the monster, or perhaps the tragic hero, not that it matters either way. Your choice gave Dave hope, which will only serve to feed the more perverse part of your mind, battling out against your conscience, as it loses more every time. Before this decision, there was potential, the potential for an infinite number of things to occur, and afterwards, you're left with the product of an irreversible process, the entropy of the universe increased as that potential is destroyed, setting you on a path of inevitability and rightfully balancing the surroundings of the system with could-haves and should-haves. Your system moves towards order as the world around you moves to a state closer to disorder. It's basic thermodynamics.
You realize how ridiculously dramatic you're being and shut that shit down with a mental iron fist. You only allow yourself to be amused for a very short moment by the fact that this emotional shift demonstrates a basic energy transfer by its very nature, from dramatic inner monologue to… less dramatic inner monologue. See, you're shutting this shit down, before you're lost in your head with bullshit about inevitability and entropy and limitless possibilities.
You're kissing Dave, and it's probably one of the greatest feelings in the world. It's been a long time since you've been sexually involved with anyone, mostly because you've had other things to do, what with a kid and jobs and whatnot. But this, even this is different with anything you've had in the past ten years, because he clings to you like he'll collapse if you leave him and kisses you like you'll disappear if he doesn't. His hands dig into your back and you thread a hand through his hair in return. His eyes open, trying to read your face and see through your shades. The almost eye contact should make it all feel too intense for you, but instead it sends a jolt to your dick and makes you smirk against Dave's mouth.
When you break the kiss, one of his hands grips a handful of the back of your shirt, like he could honestly keep you there if he wanted to. Jesus, kid, you were going to pass out if you kept on going like that. You need oxygen at some point.
He rests his head where your neck meets your shoulder. "Fuck," he mutters against your skin.
You run your fingers up and down his spine, your other hand rubbing the base of his skull, running through the short hair there. He takes a moment to move the shades in his lap, but still holds onto you the entire time. You start kissing him again, his mouth opening easily for you, letting your tongue inside as he claws down your back. One of his hands moves down to your hip, and he slyly brings it down to palm at your erection through his jeans. You break the kiss, but he doesn't stop.
"This isn't what you want," you say, grabbing his hand. Of course it's what he wants, but it isn't what he needs. He needs someone who isn't twice his age, someone who isn't his brother, someone who didn't raise him, someone who would fuck him for anything other than how much he needs you. You know he won't say no, though, and maybe it shouldn't ease your conscience because of that, but it does.
"Fuck you, I know what I want," he says. You don't let yourself smirk at that. Instead, you rest your hand at the small of his back and use the other to get leverage underneath his knee. He takes the hint as you lift him, hanging on to you and wrapping his legs around you.
You lay him down on his own bed, where he uses the legs around you as leverage to pull you closer to him. He has a look in his eyes that says he's getting exactly what he wants, but really, you think, you're not letting him do a thing you don't want him to do. You straddle his legs, your own on either side of his, looming over him with a hand by his shoulder. He reaches his hand up to remove your hat and then your shades, which you take from him and set on the table to your right.
Dave leans up to kiss you, and you suck at the mark left by some other douchebag earlier tonight, red and purple and marring the pale skin beneath you. You make it yours, if just to assuage the feeling that bubbles up inside you that makes you want to kill whoever did this to him. Dave lets out shaky breaths as you do, hands fumbling around your belt, trying to get it undone. Your hands go to the button of his jeans, which you make quick work of and yank his zipper down just as he starts to tug at yours. You palm at his dick through the opening in his jeans, hand rubbing against the material of his boxers. A moan escapes from his lips and he moves his hips into the touch. He doesn't wait to get your pants down, just slips his hand beneath the hem of your underwear and takes your dick in his hand.
You lift his hips so that you can shove his pants and underwear down around his thighs, reaching your hand back, cupping his ass. He leans up to suck at your bottom lip, his hand working itself around your erection, before he lies flush against the bed, hand running down your back, over the material of your shirt.
His hand moves away from your dick and he dips his hand up under the hem of your shirt. "Are you ever planning on getting naked or am I just getting my hopes up?" He asks, his fingers tickling your abdomen.
You roll your eyes, before sitting up and removing your shirt, tossing it somewhere in the middle of his room. You decide it actually might be worth it to get off the bed in order to shed your pants and boxer briefs in one quick motion, and Dave takes the opportunity to kick his the rest of the way off and to the floor beside his bed. You get back on top of him, now lying completely naked beneath you. He explores your chest with his hands, tracing scars and the lines of your abs. He traces down to the insides of your thighs, and he leans up, trying to bring his head closer to his body, but his eyes squeeze close when he tries, so he lies back on the bed.
"Some asshole gave me this massive cut," he explains, hand on his own chest, covered with gauze.
Your fingers whisper across his torso, bringing them down to where you give his cock a teasing stroke. "Someone thought it was a good idea to fight drunk," you say, punctuating it by rubbing your thumb over the slit of his dick, making his hips buck.
"That was you, I didn't want to do jack shit drunk, but hey," he says, and you cut him off with a kiss before he can say anything else. You angle your hips to align his cock against yours, rubbing them together. Dave lets out a satisfied hum, before pistoning his hips to try and get friction against yours. You wrap your hand as far as you can get it around both, slowly rolling your hips up to let your cocks rub together.
Dave props himself up on his elbows and smirks. "Fuck me," he says, looking straight into your eyes, making you just about lose it. You hope he never knows what he's doing to you.
You weren't even supposed to kiss him, much less be rubbing your dicks together. It's an easy enough question to answer, and you're glad because it doesn't make you feel guilty at all. "No," you say, frankly, spitting on your palm and spreading it on your dicks, trying to wet them.
"There's lube in my pockets," Dave says, reaching off the bed in a feeble gesture towards the floor.
"Answer's still no," you say as you reach down to rifle through his pant pockets, fishing out the little bottle with your torso pressed up against his as you do.
Dave looks indignant, but you manage to wipe the look off of his face when you slick up your dicks, rubbing the heads and massaging down the shafts. As you close the cap and toss the bottle off the bed somewhere, you make a sudden movement of your hips, fucking into your hand against his dick, making him let out a low moan that makes you want to attack his lips with your own, sucking his lips and licking into his mouth in time with the thrusts of your hips. His hand joins yours around your shafts at some point, and he rocks his hips beneath you. You're annoyed when you come first, striping Dave's stomach with white, but he's not far behind, panting and tensing beneath you.
When you both come to your senses, Dave is smirking like he's won something. It doesn't even bother you, because you know that his smugness only gives you an advantage. You feel the familiar pit of guilt building in your stomach, creeping dully back into the edges of your mind. You get up, feeling Dave reflexively reach for you. You go to the bathroom and get a washcloth, wet it, and bring it back to Dave's room after giving yourself a preliminary wipedown. You clean the come off his stomach, refusing to look into his eyes for fear that the full impact of what you've just done will hit you if you meet them.
If he's looking for some kind of affection, you don't give it to him. Instead, you leave with you clothes tucked underneath your arm, you hat on and shades replaced, the damp washcloth in you hand. You leave him in his room for the night, wordlessly, hoping that maybe he'll change his mind about all of this. Maybe next time he'll say no so that you don't have to feel that overwhelming need to take control.
A smuppet catches your eye near the futon when you dump your clothes on the floor. It's beady eyes stare up at you with judgement, as if to say You're a bad man, Mr. Strider. You know that already. You're also completely fucked.