Davis-Panzer allowed me to borrow the boys,
and I returned them unharmed, without making any money on the deal.
Warnings for Knife-play,
blood-letting, bondage, s/m, erotic asphyxiation.
© March, 2002
Your mouth opens as he moves closer, the tip of his cock just brushing against your lips as he teases you. His smile when you whimper is hungry, feral, transforming his face into a mask of lust. You hate that he can make you this hungry; that he can force those pitiful sounds from your throat, but you can't seem to live without this. Can't seem to go for more than a few sunsets at a time before seeking him out, dropping to your knees as you are before him now, the words tumbling rough and hoarse from your throat.
"Please, brother. Let me...."
"Let you what?"
He always asks, though he knows -- may the gods curse him -- what it is you need, what you want. What you have to have.
He knows, but he always makes you say it.
You whimper again, trying to follow his teasing motions. The ruddy highlights from the flames bathe his cock in a reddish glow, reminding you of the blood you've licked off him, of the heat and pain and pleasure and lust that you revel in, that you've shared with him.
"Please--"
"Say it."
His face is limned with the same reddish light as his cock, making his eyes appear darker, fiercer, though they glow with their own heat. You shudder at the primitive feelings he evokes in you, the need richer, fiercer than anything you've felt before. Before him. *You* are the leader of this band of demigods, yet he's enslaved you, has bespelled you. You, who bow to no other -- man, woman or god -- kneel before him to beg from him. To worship him.
"Let me suck your cock."
The words hurt, rasping from your throat, and you shudder as they leave you. As badly as you need it, it hurts to ask...to beg. It hurts to need. You resent it and him in equal turns, and while some days you're more comfortable with this need, today is not one of them. You raise your hand then halt in mid-motion, hovering over the fabric still covering his thighs; he's only released his cock, won't give you anything else until you ask.
Until you beg.
You taste the bitter sting of bile in your throat as your eyes hold his, hazel gone to black behind his mask. His patience for some things is limitless and in this he has no rival. He will wait until you say it and he will hear it, no matter how low you speak, no matter how rough the words, no matter the gorge that rises with them. This is his pleasure; he takes it from yours, from your pain. You drop your eyes first, after a glare which could send Silas running for cover. Submission. You hate it even as you crave it. You hate *him* even as you love him.
"Please, Methos. Let me suck your cock."
He touches your face, a brief caress of his fingers over the scar slashing across it before tangling them in your hair, pulling you roughly against him. You open your mouth eagerly, searching for him, your cock throbbing hotly behind your trousers, desperate need and obsession transforming to insane lust that rips through you -- no quarter asked, none given. You submit, hating it and loving it all at once.
"Suck me well." His voice is a hoarse snarl above you, ratcheting your lust higher. "Wet me down so you can ride."
The phrase makes you shudder with memory. *Let us ride, Brother.* Echoes of his words, his voice, taunting you. Even when you don't seek him out he teases you with it, reminding you of the need throbbing dully, deep inside you, pushed down by the sheer strength of your will over it.
You take him deeply, pulling him roughly down your throat, skinning him lightly with your teeth. His yelp makes you smile hotly around your mouthful and his fingers tighten in your hair in warning even before he speaks, his voice low-pitched, silky with implied threat. "Have a care, Kronos. You wouldn't want me to have to improvise, would you?"
The words send a shudder rippling down your spine, remembering some of his improvisations -- and he is truly, wickedly clever with them. You've been penetrated with fingers, whips, sticks, bones, a phallus fashioned out of rough rawhide. Some rough, some smooth, some slick with warmed oil and some not, so that they hurt intentionally. His fingers are hot against your jaw where he's stroking, following your sucking; when you look up at him, his face is in a rictus of his raiding persona: you are looking at Death, and He has mastered you.
You're edgy tonight and that thought sits not at all well with you. You growl, the sound rising around the two of you, your throat rippling with it. A flash of hatred sears through the heat of pleasure making your entire body throb. You clench your hands into fists and pull off him, aching inside from need and anger.
Methos' eyes widen in surprise then narrow in consideration; in the firelight he looks the part of Death so much more than out in the bright light of day. He's hot and cold all at once, his eyes burning into you.
"You wanted this," he sneers softly, drawing away from you long enough to re-fasten his trousers before jerking your head back to look at him. "You're the one before me on your knees, begging like a whore, and now you're not *satisfied* with what you're getting?"
"No," you snarl softly. "Not satisfied at all." Oh, you've sealed your fate with that; you see it in his eyes even before he nods, before he backhands you with a force that makes your vision swim and your cock throb. When you raise your head again to look at him the entire left side of your face burns, skin flushed and swelling even as healing begins, lending its own unique brand of fire. How can he hold such power over you when it is you who holds the power? What is it about this man, this brother of blood and death, that makes you feel as if he owns your soul? The day you joined with him, raised your hand to his to clasp together in an unholy partnership was the day you lost a part of yourself to him. Love? Need? Want? They're tangled together with lust and hate and greed, buoyed up with jealousy. His dominance to your submission, your obsession to his indifference. You taste blood on your lip and feel your mouth curl with a smile that comes out hungry, feral, more of a sneer than anything. The blow that comes after you spit at him sends you sprawling onto the floor, husky laughter bubbling from your lips, now split and stained crimson.
Methos' laughter is darker than yours, sending chills sparking through you, mixing with the heat still creeping along inside. You like it here on the edge, provoking him into action, trying to bring the control back to your side. If you manipulate him into something, then it's not really submission, is it? Or is it still, since that's what you want so badly to do, to give, even if it hurts so much?
"Not giving in easily tonight, eh, Brother?" That soft, silky tone makes your toes curl. The knowledge that he knows how much you crave this burns like acid in your gut and you roll to your belly to push up onto your knees, dragging one forearm across your mouth. Sharp tingles burn where the healing flows from your core outward and you spit once more at him, a last mouthful of blood and saliva, provoking him again. No. There is nothing easy about this, tonight, or ever.
You wouldn't want it to be easy.
In the end, you'll be the victor. You need to submit, but you don't do it willingly. He will have to force it, make you give in to him. In resistance, you maintain some control; he won't have all of it.
The blow that follows sends you sprawling belly-down again and he's on you before you can catch your breath, his thighs squeezing against your ribs as he straddles your back, fingers tangled into your hair, pulling your head up and back, exposing your weakest area. "Defiance is a dangerous thing, Brother." The knife -- which secret place did he pull it from this time? -- pricks your throat and you swallow hard, groin aching even as your muscles turn to water. His lips are soft and warm next to your ear as he whispers harshly, "And you'll be defiant 'til the last, won't you, Kronos?"
How well you know that. How well *he* knows that. The words make you squirm beneath him, the promise of pain and glorious freedom sending electric shocks of their own all through you.
He moves the knife in a slow, light swirl over your skin; you can feel the creeping shock where it touches you, scrapes, moves on. It sends shards of pleasure slithering through you.
Soft laughter mocks you just before the knife pricks into you, hard steel sliding into warm flesh -- oh, you love that -- and the first droplet of your blood falls hot down your skin, just below the fleshy part of your ear.
His tongue is hotter still, lapping at your skin. Does he taste your hatred? Your love? The need quaking deep inside you, begging for release?
Hard teeth sink into you and you yelp, scrabbling at the richly-colored carpet beneath you as he gnaws, never breaking skin but scraping relentlessly, his tongue dancing over your flesh to soothe it even as he rouses you unbearably.
And then he's gone and you can breathe again, taking in great gulps of air, not sure if he's done with you or not. You hope not. You haven't squelched the need, though it eats away still at your innards, mocking you with it's brightness.
"Up." Eyes dark as night as he stares down at you, everything around you now in shades of red and black -- blood and night. That's perfect. Night to hide you, blood to soothe you. You stare up at him and don't move fast enough for him because he fists his fingers into the cloth of your tunic and hauls you to your feet; a big man, with anger and lust and his own sort of love burning inside him now. Why do either of you fight what seems inevitable? If you had the answer to that, perhaps you'd also unlock the secrets to the world around you. A hard slap against the side of your head makes things waver around you briefly before you focus your attention on him once more.
"Kronos, Kronos," he shakes his head at you, that small, mocking smile turning his lips up at the corners, just so. "I don't understand, Brother. You seem to like it so well on your knees...but perhaps you prefer a standing position?" Methos jerks his head toward two of the large poles supporting his tent and your innards quiver with glee and trepidation.
"Perhaps I just changed my mind about being your whore tonight, *Brother*." You spit the words at him, holding your ground. Not for one moment will you concede; to do so would end the game.
"I don't ask you to whore yourself." You can feel his pulse when he grabs you; you can see it jumping where his throat bows inward, that small hollow you've tasted many times in the night. Such thin, thin skin there and the salt gathers nicely after he's sweated all day long. Sometimes he tastes of blood as well: his, others, your own. Red and black; blood and night. "But since you offer it so sweetly--" Rawhide bites into your wrists; when did he jerk you to the poles? You remind yourself sternly how it's dangerous to let your mind wander so far while playing this game with him; he might believe he's won if you lose yourself too early on. "--of course I'll take it. Or take it from you."
Bound between poles, you can't move, can't do more than twitch as he circles you endlessly, causing your skin alternately to crawl with fear and tingle with anticipation. He jerks open your tunic and you're glad you were only wearing the thin, inner shirt; no great loss when he shreds the material before pulling it from you, leaving you bared to the waist. Methos is a master with knives, and he slices you slowly, almost gently, a lover wooing his beloved. A flick of his wrist here and a moist red line appears, tracing your ribs lovingly. A flick of his wrist there and you hiss quietly, your nipples peaking from the pain and then again when his tongue replaces the knife, lips bathed in red when he pulls away to look at you again.
Each tiny slice, each small nick frees a part of you held prisoner by your need for command, for dominance. You don't want to give it up but a part of you cries out for it, so you struggle with it, shaking when a small bit tears free within you, the pain of the cuts decorating you obliterating the bonds within yourself.
The cuts grow deeper, longer, and you groan with each one, the steady drip of scarlet heat down your belly, thighs and legs making your desire rise up fiercer, a thirst needing quenching. Your trousers disappear, cut to shreds by Methos' wicked knife, bright red leaking from the thin gashes over your hips where he slashed at the material. You're naked, wearing nothing but cuts and ribbons and spirals of red, decorated just for him as he desires.
You close your eyes and revel in the freedom of the moment, shiver when he tucks himself in close to you and licks your ear. You can feel the heat of his erection poking against you, even through the thickness of his clothing, and the wet warmth of his mouth as he tastes you, the sweat and blood streaking your neck.
"I could take you like this, Kronos, and you'd fight me...but you'd love it. You'd welcome it."
You hate that he knows you so well.
You hate that you love him for it.
"Shall I fuck you, Brother? Strung up and open wide...I know your body aches for it--" His hand slips down your torso, nails scratching at the cuts, and you grunt and buck backwards against him, cursing him in your native tongue. When he encircles your cock his hand is wet and warm, slicked with your blood. For an instant you think of the moist heat of a woman, any woman, perhaps the last one you laid with. Perhaps the one you slept with, in another life, another time, before a different sort of need slipped in to torment you nightly.
He strokes and you whimper, pushing your hips forward, panting as he strokes you, teeth worrying at the long, tense muscle on the side of your neck. It's all sensation and if you close your eyes and focus on the black beyond your eyelids, on the warmth of the red holding you, you can feel another tiny bit tear free. You whimper again, your throat tight around the sound, resenting him for causing it. Hating yourself for making it. So close...you pump forward again, cock surging within the warmth of his hand, the slick tunnel he's made for you --
"That'd be too easy." He slides away from you, his hand stroking forward then gone and you can't stop the small cry that escapes your lips.
"Bastard! Fucking bastard --"
"I know you don't want it easy, Kronos." His lips are at your ear again, his voice sending shivers coursing down your spine. Your eyes close as you lean backward, welcoming the pain that spikes up your arms where rawhide pulls on your wrists.
"Pl--"
"No. Shh." He pulls your head back, fingers fisted tight in the length of your hair, pulling hard at it until it seems as if he'd yank it from your scalp. "You want more, Kronos. You know it. I know it. You need more...much more than this." He draws your head back further, your neck bare and exposed now and the knife is in his hand once more, moving hypnotically slow back and forth, the tip never quite touching, leaving only the barest hint of a sting.
The sheer terror that washes over you makes your heart race and you legs wobble, makes your cock and balls ache with unrelieved need, with the need for...something. You swallow and the sound is loud in the silence; the only other sounds are the rough noises of your breathing. After what seems an eternity he drops the knife to the ground, then Methos is quiet behind you, body still and tight, teasing you with nothing but the strength of his fingers and the gentle waft of his breath against your ear. "Tell me what you want, Brother. Tell me...what you need."
He strokes long, strong fingers down the length of your throat, nails scraping lightly until you whimper and shiver, wanting to beg, knowing it's close. Anything...you would promise anything so long as he doesn't stop the sensation, so long as he fucks you -- giving and taking all in one.
But...that's giving in. That's handing him submission, handing him victory. You'll be damned before you do that. Your mouth goes dry and your belly quakes at the thought, but you say it anyway, the word hissed through clenched teeth.
"No."
You barely feel the air move this time, before his hand connects with your face. A splitting, splintering sensation explodes around you and you know he's broken your cheekbone this time. You can taste the blood as it rushes over your lips, hot and salty, exacerbating your hunger rather than dampening it.
"Very well." He steps away from you, moves in front of you, and the smile the curves his mouth doesn't reach his eyes. Or rather, it does, but it's a black, black smile that you answer with one of your own, body and mind screaming *finally*. He won't give you what you want, necessarily, but he'll give you what you need. And perhaps later, you'll get the other, as well.
There is a lull then, when he moves away from you, sets to whatever preparations he needs done for the rest of the evening. You relax against the rawhide, eyes closed while you wait, as wait is all you can do at this point. To struggle against nothing would be a different sort of madness than what burns inside you already.
The first touch of braided leather against your skin startles you. It doesn't strike; Methos strokes it over your skin, flaking dried blood off your belly and chest with the rough/smooth coil. You look up into his eyes and shiver inwardly, innards clenching tight at the look in his eye. Death. Death's returned, resurrected for this moment. You envy the flames bathing his face, wanting to touch him, to touch that look before he burns you with it. Burns you in it.
You know Death isn't cold; it's a fiery thing, a live thing that consumes and creates nothing from everything.
The first strokes against your flesh sting, then burn, and you laugh and stretch, rolling the muscles in your back. He'll flay you alive, said that look. In your mind's eye you can see yourself, stripped to bare bone, shaking and crying and begging for more. Death is your lover, your life, everything you want to be, everything you want to have and hold. You bend your head forward to take what he gives, gritting your teeth as the strokes come harder, faster, burning giving way to bright-hot pain that fills you, cleanses you, remakes you into whatever image He wants.
The lash cuts deep as he strikes you over and over again. You can feel the blood -- your blood, bright and hot -- flowing freely, your arms and legs gone shaky and weak. Pain...it's everything now. There is nothing else around you except him, and the whip cutting sharply into your skin. All you see now is red, with black hovering around the edges, things soft and fuzzy when you peer outward. Are your eyes open? Or are you seeing the images of night and blood through the thin skin of your eyelids? A sharp crack and the lash coils around your hip, cutting there, finer than your finest blade. The same blade you used yesterday to slice a man's eyelids off so he could watch everything you subjected his tribe to.
So he could watch a scene much like this, except you weren't the one begging Death for Life.
Have you begged yet?
The ground under you, the thick, woven rug Methos favors, is red and wet with your blood. Do you have any left within you? You waver on your feet, the black threading through the red of your vision now, stealing bits from it.
If you could see...but you can't. You can feel, though, and you can count each stripe on your skin. The ones that overlap, which have laid bare and white the bones hiding within you, letting them gleam brightly through the wetness of the other colors. Your thighs, your legs, the cheeks of your ass, not one bit of you is unmarked. You've torn the muscles in your throat screaming; no sound issues forth now. You make a soft sound and lay your head back, offering the one place you almost know even he won't take.
Almost. Nothing is a guarantee; if you've learned nothing else, you've learned that.
"Now this...this is beautiful." Oh. His voice. Thick, rich, heavy with arousal and excitement, with need of his own. It caresses your ears, your neck, the words warm and rough against skin that burns and weeps tears of red. You're beyond insensate; all you can do is hang there, your wrists shredded, aching, your body singing a song you recognize but can't play alone. "So beautiful, my brother..." He teases your ear with his tongue, tastes the tears you've shed -- water and blood both -- his heat almost too much to bear against your bloodied, ruined back.
And hotter still is the shaft pressing against you, rubbing against the slickness of your torn skin.
You turn your head slowly, ribbons of red and black swimming around you, and whisper against his mouth. "Please...."
He laughs, delighted. "Oh, yes. That and so much more." He thrusts home hard and fast, almost brutally, and your aching throat contracts around a noise that might've been a groan. He laughs again, softly, and licks up and down the length of your exposed throat. "So hot for me, Brother. Always so hot...."
The ache of your arms offsets the ache of penetration as he pulls on you, moving you around to his satisfaction. Each movement sets off new waves of pain, fresh and raw deep within you, rising upward as your healing chases after it. It won't be a quick healing; he's hurt you too badly for it to happen immediately. You've had enough close calls and deaths in your life thus far to know the signs; you shiver within his arms as he fucks himself slowly in and out of you, giving you what you wanted so bad earlier. Now it's shadowed by what you needed...what you got.
He snakes one arm across your chest to hold you firmly against him -- your muscles no longer obey your commands and standing alone isn't a possibility. His other arm slides lower, hand encircling your cock once more. So many sensations welling up inside you then, different needs and wants competing for attention.
Pain battles with lust, want battles with need. You battle with yourself, wanting to *feel* it all, not wanting to give into the blackness swimming just at the edge of your vision. The strength of his hands cradles you, holds you, pleasures you and while his cock hurts inside you, it's an ache you embrace happily, a different, familiar pain stretching to all parts of you, filling you.
He strokes you harder, faster, and now the predominant need within you is the urge to come, to spill your seed and see it spatter creamy white against the redness pooled at your feet.
Methos' arm around your chest tightens briefly and his lips caress your neck, sliding up to your ear. "I want you to fly free, Kronos. Is that what you want, as well?"
And the moment is here. You can feel it. You feel it in his cock buried inside you, in his hand circling and stroking, in his other hand, fingers moving around your throat as if it were your cock. You swallow roughly -- your mouth and throat are so dry it hurts -- and feel his fingers clench tighter, just a little. A sharp nip to your ear and his voice again, deep and rough, endless as the wind which blows across the desert. "Do you?"
"Yes...yes...."
Oh, the words hurt. It's a pain worse than that which came with the whipping. Worse than the cuts still open and dripping across your ribs. Worse than anything that's killed you. Giving in to what you need so badly cuts you to the quick the way nothing else ever has or will.
Soft words fill your ears but you don't hear them. They make no sense to you; they're a language only Methos knows, probably the one of his youth, long ago and far away. His fingers tighten on your throat while his other hand pumps you steadily, working your desire higher. You're floating now, borne up on waves of pain and arousal. Vaguely you can feel his strength supporting you, always there supporting you, whether he's fucking you or conferring with you on the best direction to raid from. Always Methos. Always Death. Black and red, swimming together lazily while the pressure increases at opposite ends of your body.
You're going to come. You're going to die. You'll be free.
You're flying now, head tipped back to rest against his shoulder, eyes wide open as the darkness around you increases.
His eyes are black as the night you're hiding in, shadows lurking in there, drawing you in. You see amusement, lust, love, grief, need. The things you share together, always. For centuries before now; for centuries past this moment. You'll be together until time ends. Until you end.
Closer now and you can feel the tension; reach out against it, for it, arms flailing within your bonds, body struggling against his. He holds you closer, fingers gripping tighter everywhere he has you, everywhere he touches you. You feel it just as the night envelopes you completely, the heat of your seed spilling from you as the cold takes you, sweeps you into its dark embrace.
Death is cold, then, after all.
The last thing you feel is his mouth on yours, sucking the last of your air from you as his fingers crush your throat and his hand slips over you, wet friction from your spendings. Then the world is nothing but darkness and silence, enclosing you completely.
Life, when it returns, comes as swiftly as Death did. You're aware of many things in that first instant: the strange, harsh feeling of breath in your lungs once more; the crackling sound the fire makes; the warm, rough touch of Methos' fingers stroking over your face, tracing the scar you'll forever bear; the thirst running wild inside you and the warmth of a sheepskin covering you.
You blink and jerk, then settle back as his fingers press you down. More awareness: you're naked under the sheepskin and your cheek rests on warm, pale flesh. You're clean, the reek of blood and sweat and sex washed away. He smiles at you and there is no trace of rancor or mockery in it now, just the bond that exists between the two of you. The understanding of what has passed, and what will pass again.
You close your eyes feeling the aches still running dully through you. Even immortality can't completely erase everything all at once. It'll take a bit longer, probably sleeping through the night before you feel completely new again. Dimly you wonder if he's ever felt this way -- the need that presses in until it blocks out everything else, and the way you feel afterward, when it's been met, when you're empty and at peace, like a shore after the tide has receded.
Perhaps some day you'll ask him, but not now.
"Here. Drink." He props you up just enough to tip the small wooden cup so the liquid won't spill down your belly and holds it to your mouth. It's water and wine, rich enough to warm your blood again, cool enough to cut the thirst raging inside you. When you've slaked your thirst he lowers your head again, bending his own to lick over your lips, lapping up the droplets remaining there. Then he pulls away, though not far, and touches your hair, stroking gently, soothingly.
It's quiet, but for the crackle of the fire, and you can feel your strength returning, fed by the comfort and closeness and the sense of peace within you. Memories of flying, of utter freedom just as blackness closed 'round you send a soft, floaty feeling all through you and you shiver once, not from cold but from contentment.
His fingers in your hair feel good and you turn slowly, curling closer into him. He's completely naked, you his only covering, and the small hairs on his leg tickle your cheek, rubbing against the rasp of beard beginning to cover your jaw. You raise one hand slowly, bringing it up to cup his genitals, hanging lax and loose between his crossed legs.
"Methos?"
"Hmm?"
The words stick in your throat. Desire is there to acknowledge what he's given you, to thank him for the gift, but you can't. Again you wonder why the relentless fight against the inevitable, but then, man has fought against the inevitable since he first walked the earth. Why should you and your brother be different? You press a kiss to his inner thigh and close your eyes again, determined to be content with the silence. Someday you'll tell him. Someday you'll find the words. Until then, you know he only has to look into your eyes to see it. To see your needs and desires, and the means to achieve them. To see everything you are.
You wonder, as Methos shifts to stretch out beside you, pulling you close to his larger body, what form the next battle will take? You're peaceful and calm now, the storms which rage inside you are quieted for the moment, though it's hard to say for how long. A day? Three? A week, perhaps. And then the battle will begin again, need over want, submission over dominance.
"Sleep, Brother." His voice is soft and sluggish, sleep pressing in from all sides. The last thing to give in to, the need to rest after reviving, To let your body finish healing itself. And this is to yourself -- giving in and letting go, knowing he'll be there in the morning when you wake, to look at you with that faintly mocking smile that curves his mouth while his eyes say things you'll never hear. You shift once and bring his hand back up from where it curled around your waist, to settle it over your throat. No pressure, just the memory to follow you into sleep.
The memory of flying.
Of freedom.
Of submission.
~finis~
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