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Hocus Pocus
A Magical Phrase
- Joined
- Oct 19, 2020
Lustful Sins: White
Hocus Pocus: Yellow
Hocus Pocus: Yellow
Connor Monroe || 22 || Male
Connor grew up in a household full of alcohol, drugs and neglect. His parents didn’t hate him as much as they didn’t care about his existence. For as long as he can remember, he’s been self-sufficient and capable of taking care of himself out of circumstance. His family didn’t have much money, wasting it on an abundance of drugs and alcohol. At sixteen, Connor moved in with a friend so that they would stop stealing his hard earned cash. When his father died of an overdose and his mother was arrested for theft and burglary. He has an innate gift for all things related to machinery and wants to pursue a career in mechanics, but can’t afford the schooling. Out of habit, he drinks a little too much.
Late Friday nights were Connor’s favorite time to drink. Not one worry of an early morning shift or being judged for getting wasted in the middle of the week. After the past week, he needed a couple shots to get through the next one. Slumped over the bar counter, one arm braced on the hardwood, the other clutched around a chilled glass of something he forgot the name of. It didn’t matter. As long as it got him one step closer to being blackout drunk, he didn’t care what it was. His concern was on the thoughts in his head, the equations that didn’t add up. The latest project he started, one he could hardly afford but refused to give up on, wasn’t going well. Part of his equations or calculations must have been off, but he couldn’t figure out where he’d messed up. It was driving him mad.
Connor groaned softly and dropped his head onto his arm. Alcohol sometimes helped to clear his mind. It wasn’t working this time. Irritated, he took a long swig of the amber liquid in his cup, until he drained the last few dregs. Then, he pushed the cup away and flagged down the bartender.
“Another. Same thing,” he mumbled, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. If he wasn’t going to be able to figure it out, getting drunk and crashing at his friend Tony’s place was the next best bet. Better than agonizing over it sober. As the bartender began to pour him a drink, he stopped the man and held up two fingers. “Make it a double.”
“You better pay in cash this time,” the man behind the counter grumbled. “I ain’t swiping your shitty credit card just for it to bounce again.”
“I got cash, Mikey, chill it,” Connor said. A lie. He didn’t have a penny in his pockets, but that was a problem for after he was plastered.
“That’s what you said last week, you broke bastard. This is the last time, you hear me?” Mikey put the drinks down with a forceful clatter.
Connor stared blankly at the condensation. “I’ll suck your dick if you clear my tab,” he offered. No shame, no hesitation.
Mikey snorted. “Thanks but no thanks. You know you ain’t my type.”
Another sigh. “Worth a shot.”
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(Note: Disregard the jaw and additional metal attachments. It's just the arm.)
Jude Stanton had been a street rat his whole life. An abandoned baby taken in by a brothel, a runaway from there at the wee age of eight. Taught to read by other street rats and homeless. He found an aptitude for convincing people to do what he wanted and rapidly fell in with a number of drug cartels as a runner. At sixteen, he ran with the wrong crowd and got his right arm blown off, literally, when a small pipe bomb was strapped to his hand. From there, he was immersed in the ever present need for better android prosthetics. Now twenty six, Jude has his own line of drugs, his own lackeys, and his own alcohol addiction.
Jude Stanton has had yet another successful day on the street, keeping his head low, letting his men do the dirty work. Time to celebrate. Unfortunately, his usual haunt is staked by cops waiting to catch him. Thus, he finds his way across town to a bar he hasn't visited before. Where nobody knows him on site.
6'3, all muscle, sandy brown hair neatly pushed back from his face, Jude seems like a relatively average Joe, if perhaps one that enjoys a thorough workout. Brilliant blue eyes add to his seemingly charming demeanor. What sets him apart is the expensive piece of equipment attached to his right shoulder, the kind only the rich or criminally inclined can afford. The best currently available on both legal and illegal markets, the Android prosthetic boasts the iconic honeycomb pattern of 'cyberskin', thin sleeve tech with a fully touch sensitive surface. Over that is removable steel plating made to reinforce and protect the prosthetic. Cyberskin is known to be delicate, after all. Jude's chosen color is red, and it can be reprogrammed at any time. He had a penchant for sleeveless tops, always eager to show off his tech. Leather pants hug long legs, easier to move in than most would think, and thick soled steel toe boots that could do a lot of damage.
Jude isn't alone, he rarely is, having two men with him as lookouts. A small coin satchel, somewhat old fashioned, hangs from his belt. Like any good drug dealer, Jude always has a supply on him. Up to the bar, smacking his right hand on the bartop to call the tenders attention. "A round of your best scotch for me and my men!" Jude's voice is demanding, yet jovial and light. Part of his charm is appearing open and friendly.
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Connor had a bad habit of dozing off with his face pressed to the counter in a puddle of his own drool by the time he finished his fourth drink. If he felt nice enough, Mikey would shake him awake and walk him home. Not often. Only on nights where he didn’t want to knock Connor’s teeth down his throat. Tonight, he didn’t even manage to fall asleep. A loud, jovial voice filled the small space with unwanted sound. The place was not a popular bar. Snug and a bit cramped, but the drinks were cheap and Mikey wasn’t too bad if he got his pay on time. Not well known or heavily populated by crooks though.
He turned his head to gauge that newcomers when he saw a sight that would have made any reasonable, aspiring mechanic faint from joy. A beautiful, flawless honeycomb pattern of cyberskin, covered in a protective layer of removable and adjustable steel plating. It was top of the line. Sleek, shiny, expensive. Everything that Connor loved about cyber technology and more. To see one in person was literally so mind blowing he almost missed Mikey’s reply.
“Finally, someone who has some fucking money,” he grumbled as he started to dish out glasses of scotch for the stranger.
Connor should have been slightly offended, but he was too busy staring at that beautiful robotic arm. The man who possessed said arm wasn’t hard on the eyes either, but he had no time for dating or sleeping around when it came to his pursuit of mechanical knowledge.
“Oh my god,” he slurred, slamming his hand down on the counter several times in excitement. Breath reeking of alcohol, cheeks flushed. Connor was often called a cute guy with his soft hair and delicate features, but if the sex didn’t get him closer to a scholarship to the University of Cyber Development he didn’t give a damn. “Your arm! That’s a Class Five prosthetic arm, made of temperature and pressure sensitive cyberskin. I’ve never seen one in person!”
In his drunken excitement, he turned away from his drink completely to make grabby hands for the stranger’s arm. “Lemme see it, lemme see it! Can I touch it? Pleeeease, I’ve been wanting to see one forever!” This was what he needed to complete his project, making his very own variation of the man’s prosthetic limb. Almost an exact copy, except he couldn’t get his to move properly without getting too hot.
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Not usually surprised, Jude is actually caught off guard by the sudden repeated slapping further down the bar. His men bristle at the seemingly unwarranted attention, but when Jude realizes it's directed to his right arm, he laughs. A calming motion with his hand has his men sitting down to enjoy their drinks. Jude picks his own up in his left hand and moves toward the young drunkard. A fellow alcoholic and one that knows his prosthetics.
"Well, someone certainly knows his tech." Jude's voice rumbles as he takes a seat next to the clearly younger man. Though, probably not much younger. He holds out his right hand, palm up, and flexes his muscles in such a way as to trigger the steel plates to flare upward. This facilitates removal, if Jude wanted, and gives access to the cyberskin beneath. "Just don't go pulling it apart here. I don't need you losing pieces."
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“There’s exactly six hundred and thirty-two different pieces in your arm, I’m not gonna go pulling them apart in a dingy bar.” Connor rattled off an exact number as if it were common knowledge. He had spent hours studying the only public diagrams of cyber prosthetics available on the internet. JumpTech kept their blueprints a secret and taking one of their devices apart usually resulted in the destruction of the device, since so few people knew how to put them back together. It was a complicated process.
Seeing one in person was nothing like the blueprints, magazine photos or advertisements. It was so much better. Connor could have died of happiness the moment his fingers touch the smooth surface of the stranger’s palm. Of course it felt like real skin——it cost thousands to make it feel so lifelike. There were some models that even looked like real limbs, but people preferred the creative versions instead. “Wow,” he breathed to himself, giggling drunkenly. “I almost have everything right. The texture, the plating, I’m just missing…” There, near the wrist, was a little tiny bolt that had escaped Connor’s eye for weeks. “One bolt! That’s it! It’s a bolt, oh my god!”
He threw his arms up, teetering in his chair and nearly falling over. Connor caught himself by grabbing onto the stranger’s arm, giddy and intoxicated. “I’m a genius,” he bragged, patting the beautiful piece of tech almost lovingly. “Drink with meeeee, I’m gonna be famouuuus!”
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Jude is impressed by the instant rattle of information from the stranger. He himself only knows the number of pieces because there had been a mountain of paperwork for him to be able to even get the arm. Months of pushing drugs, pulling deals, and fencing stolen goods to get the wealth to be able to acquire this tech, and the medical team to attach it. Not to mention the forged ID's to keep his identity secret, seeing as he had to go the legal (sort of) route to get it.
When the boy tilts backward, Jude lays his steel paneling flat to grab the front of his shirt just as the boy grabs onto his arm. He is way past drunk, and it's endearing. It's also the perfect opportunity. Jude whistles, calling over the bartender. "How deep in is he?" Jude is referring to the stranger's tab, even as he signals for another drink for the boy.
Jude's left hand pulls a tablet of 'Syn', his line of powerful aphrodisiac, from the leather pouch at his waist. It's hidden in his palm, and easily dropped into the stranger's drink when he covers it with his hand. "A bolt is a strange thing to get excited over. What's your name?"
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“Deeper than this moron can afford to get himself out of,” Mikey huffed. He had no issue setting down the requested drink, no matter who it was for. The stranger had more than enough money to pay for it if he was toting around an accessory like that. “This’ll be his seventh drink tonight. Hasn’t paid me in weeks. Owes me a good chunk of money.”
Connor doesn’t pay enough attention to be insulted. On that note, he didn’t notice the pill slipped into his drink either, given how eager he was to take the gifted beverage. He didn’t chug the drink but it was a neat thing. “Connor. Who’re you? You don’t drink here. Never seen you.” Being reminded of the bolt made him raise his arms, drink included, which he almost spilled. “A bolt, you silly man! It’s what I need to finish my project. I’m building my own prosthetic. Gonna start a business and be riiiiich!”
That was supposed to be a secret and he laughed at his own slip up, down the rest of his drink. Saddened by the empty cup and momentarily pouting. “Whoops. Shhh, don’t tell anyone I’m building one, they’ll take it away,” he whispered, far too loud, hugging the stranger’s arm close. Refusing to let it go.
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Jude hums at the bartender's reply, then sucks in a breath when the drugged drink is nearly spilled. With a light sigh and an amused chuckle, Jude sets his right hand high on Connor's thigh. The boy is clinging to his arm anyway, might as well get handsy before the Syn takes effect. Connor's likely too drunk to notice anyway.
"You're going to make a replica class 5 prosthetic? And you just needed a tiny little wrist bolt to finish it?" Jude isn't dumb, he knows that little bolt creates a circuit connection for the temperature regulators in the class 5 prosthetic. He needs to know how his own tech works given that he likely won't be able to go back to the same place if it needs repairs.
Jude's men come over, leaning down to whisper in his ear. He nods, then turns to the bartender. "Tell you what. Forget his tab, and I'll make your bar my new regular haunt." As incentive, Jude counts out ten one hundred cred bills onto the counter from his satchel. He pauses, then jerks his head at Connor still clinging to his arm. "Oh, and I'll take this one off your hands for the night."
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Mikey whistles at the crumpled bills pushing his way. Tucks them into his apron. “You got yourself a deal, stranger. I ain’t gonna turn down good business.” One glance at Connor is enough to see he’s unfit to make any decisions. Either Mikey doesn’t care or doesn’t notice. “Fine by me, man. He’s all yours.”
Connor has been drinking regularly for years, long before he was legally allowed to do so. In all that time, he’s never felt like this. A shivery heat that crawls down his spine like soft, caressing flames, all the way to his belly where it curls and grows. He feels too hot, comparable to a fever caused by illness. Lightheaded, dizzy. The bar lights that were once dim were now too bright. People are talking around him, he thinks. About something or other. He doesn’t know. There’s a hand on his thigh, lingering too long. He should push it away. Call the stranger a creep. The usual rejection he prepares for the unwanted advances of people who don’t interest him.
He doesn’t reject him. Can’t think of a good reason to. Or if he really wants to. It almost feels nice, having that hand there. Connor isn’t conscious of the way his body pushes into the touch. The drug’s effects were both obvious and different than intoxication. Relaxing his muscles, dulling his common sense, making him sit instinctively with his body closer to the stranger’s and his thighs parting without notice.
“Yeah, I made it so I could get into UCD,” he hears his own voice and he doesn’t recognize it. Breathy, quiet. He feels like he could faint, but also like he could stare at the muscles of the stranger’s collarbone forever. Both sound nice.
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Jude doesn't miss the gradually changes in Connor's demeanor. He's eager to get the boy out of the bar before the bartender notices the difference. Plus, a patrol car had been spotted passing by outside hence the whisper from his men. Smirking, Jude stands and pulls Connor along with him. "Come on, pretty boy, let's get you home." Jude doesn't say whose home. "By the way, my name is Jude."
Outside, Jude loads Connor into the sleek black car parked in front of the bar. His men get into the front, pulling away once Jude is settled. He's got his left arm around Connor's waist, hand on his hip, and his right hand on his thigh again. His fingertips press lightly at Connor's inner thigh.
"So you want to be a prosthetic designer, huh kid?" Big endeavor for a young drunk, especially one saved from a large debt by a criminal. But if this kid really knows his tech, Jude could make good use of him, and expand his reach into the tech field of the underground market. "I hear you need a sponsorship for that."
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Connor doesn’t know Jude, has never seen the sleek black car before, and knows without a shadow of a doubt that he should not go anywhere with this man. He knows it. Alarm bells are ringing in his head like tornado sirens. He can’t make himself say so out loud, can’t remember how to properly explain that he would rather walk home. By the time he thinks he can, he’s already in the backseat, with Jude’s arm around his waist. That hand on his thigh, fingers exploring further than they should. His brain is screaming for him to get away, but his body wants to stay put.
He wants to answer, he’s always happy to talk about his passion for being a mechanic and designer, but the words are lost in his head. Connor fumbles nearby to roll down the window, letting in cool night air as the car moves. He’s so hot, he must be melting. The cool breeze doesn’t help for long. The drug doesn’t wait for the car to reach its destination. Connor shifts in his seat, can’t find a comfortable way to sit. His clothes are itchy and hot. He’s panting, too loudly. Everyone in the car must be able to hear it. Worst of all, he’s hard as a rock in his jeans. When his body started to react that way, he couldn’t begin to guess.
“I wanna go home,” he gasps, but it’s a weak request.
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Jude is smirking, all hs attention on Connor as the boy fidgets. The window rolls down, but Jude's arm prevents Connor from moving away. His thumb strokes the top of the boy's thigh. The panting is loud, yes, but nobody seems to care. Jude's men have driven him home with a drugged companion enough times, it no longer bothers them.
"Don't worry, Connor. We're going home." Jude leans his head down to brush his nose against Connor's temple, inhaling the smell of alcohol and arousal. His hand on Connor's thigh ventures further between his legs, thumb now brushing the hard election hidden in his pants. "We're almost there."
When the car pulls up to what seems to be a rather quaint two storey home, Jude half drags the disoriented Connor out of the backseat. He supports the boy, leading the way up to the front door. His men bid him a goodnight, then head off to their own homes. Jude makes a point of keeping his home as his own space. Inside, it's like any other home in this age; holo screen by the front door to set a security system, paintings of landscapes on the walls, a large holo screen tv in the living room. Jude has a lot of wealth, thanks to his criminal activities, but he prefers to keep his home inconspicuous.
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Connor almost loses his mind at the slightest touch to his groin. There’s no time to hate it or enjoy it, as the car pulls up to an unfamiliar house on a street he’s never been to. The details are starting to blur together. He’s being pulled toward the home, feet dragging along the ground, stumbling and almost tripping. There’s nowhere to go, no place to hide, no way to leave. This isn’t home.
“Get away,” he tries to demand, but it comes out as nothing more than a jumbled mess of noises. Half broken inhales for air and useless sounds. God, he’s so hard. The need for any sort of relief is impossible to ignore. The way he’s standing, he’s pressing flush against Jude’s body, and the man is solid. Firm, warm. His hips move, uncoordinated and clumsy, dragging denim against the layers of the stranger’s clothing. It’s not enough, but the pressure is nice enough to have him desperately seeking more. “Jude,” he says and this time, the word is clearer, spoken in a moan.
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Connor can barely walk anymore, and he's pressing up against Jude. His mumbled words and his physical actions contradict each other but Jude doesn't care. He simply picks the boy up now, legs around his waist and hand gripping the backs of Connor's thighs. Easier to just carry him up the stairs. His name, spoken in a moan, makes Jude chuckle deeply.
In the master bedroom upstairs, Jude lays Connor out on the bed. "Are you hot? Let's get you out of those clothes." Jude doesn't hesitate or wait for Connor's reply; he removes the boy's shoes and starts stripping him down. Ice blue eyes roam Connor's body once he's got him naked. Then he sets his foot on the edge of the bed, working at unloving his own boots one at a time while he watches Connor.
Boots off, Jude sheds his socks, then his sleeveless top. His fingertips trail teasingly along Connor's bare skin as he walks around the bed. His right arm flexes, flaring his steel plates, and one by one, he starts removing them and setting the plates on the nightstand. Next to a large pump bottle of lube. Jude is purposely taking his time, letting Connor sink deeper into the effects of the Syn. "Connor, do you feel good?"
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Connor wants to argue when he’s lifted up like a sack of vegetables, but his legs wrap around Jude’s waist and his arms follow suit by finding their way around his neck. He doesn’t know what he wants. His body does, showing all the signs of arousal. They completely skipped the make out session and foreplay that usually brought him to this point. It was all in a moment’s notice. “Where…” The question gets answered when Jude takes him upstairs to a large bedroom, lays him down on the bed. “I’m hot,” he says, nodding, boneless like jelly. He doesn’t know if he can ask for Jude to make it stop, but then he finally gets some relief. He’s being stripped down to nothing, out of those uncomfortable clothes, and it feels so nice to have Jude’s hands helping him out of his jeans.
Not as nice as it feels when Jude trails his fingertips along the bare skin of his thigh as he passes. Connor squirms, unsuccessfully keeping his hands away from himself. The fact that he shouldn’t doesn’t even cross his mind now. He’s touching his own chest, thumbs rubbing at his sore nipples in the way he likes best, and if he wasn’t panting before he is now. The Syn renders him hot, bothered and perfectly open to verbal suggestions. Gets rid of that little voice inside his head that knows this is not right, that this is a bad idea. It helps that he was already drunk before being exposed to it. Where he struggled to talk earlier, it’s easier now that there are no filters in the way telling him to stop. It’s instinctive, uninhibited. “I feel good,” he answers, but follows it with a slurring whine of, “Why aren’t you touching me?”
That’s what he wants. To be touched. He’s teasing his own chest and it feels nice, but it isn’t the same. Someone else’s hands are always better. Connor stops to reach for Jude, fingers grasping needily for the stranger. “Please touch me. Anywhere. Don’t care. Jude.”
