forthedog | (no subject)

Entry tags:

darrow,
neil

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It's not uncommon for him to come home covered in blood. But this is a lot of blood.

It's not as bad as it might have been. He's cleaned off what he can, washed his hands, and the rain has taken care of some of the rest. He could have gone to the asylum, where he keeps a change of clothing for exactly this reason, but now that the adrenaline has left him completely he's tired and a little drained.

In ways that have nothing to do with the wound on his throat.

Now that sanity has reasserted itself, he's sort of wondering how that's going to be taken.

But there's nothing to do about it. He pulls the bike into the garage and heads in through the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket. The wet clothes are something else he wants to shed.

He's still not sure what tonight even means. He supposes he'll figure it out eventually.

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"Why, you don't want me to?" I tease, giving him a look, "Maybe I wanna wash all that shit off of you, so fuckin' sue me."

"I didn't say I don't want you to. I want you to."

He watches the water for a moment, oddly entranced. Maybe it's just that he's tired. Maybe it's the fun neurochemical cocktail he's got going on. "We should get some bubble bath."

Snorting out a laugh, I say, "We can steal some from the girls, if you wanna smell like bubble gum."

"Maybe I do. What're you, judging me about that, now?" He leans his head against Neil's shoulder, half butting at him and half nuzzling.

"We should get our own. Something floral."

Reaching over the edge of the tub, I grab a bottle of shampoo and pop the cap, squeezing some of it into the stream of water pouring into the tub. It doesn't work as well as bubble bath would, but it's fine in a pinch.

"There, bubbles," I say, tossing the bottle back into the basket and taking a step back. "Stand up."

"You're so good to me," he says - a little dryly - and stands, stretching just a bit, spine cracking. He thinks about making the next moves himself but instead just stands, waiting to be instructed. It might be a game, and at any other time it probably would be, but something about it now feels serious in a way it never had.

"Yeah, I am," I say, dead serious as I curl a hand in front of his waistband, using the grip to yank him toward me.

Popping the button and tugging down the zipper, my hand slipping inside and curving possessively over the line of his dick through his underwear. Then, just as abruptly, I pull my hand away and drop into a crouch so I can unlace his boots.

Getting him to step out of them, I push them against the wall by the toilet, out of the way, and then stand up to finish with his pants.

He lets himself be stripped, keeping still except for when he has to move, and drawing in only a slight breath when Neil cups him. This is barely sexual, at least at the moment, but sex is in all of it, a thread that runs through everything, and while he doesn't harden and his pulse doesn't race, he feels himself sinking a little deeper.

Deep, and warm, and peaceful in a way nothing else ever is.

Getting him out of his clothes, finally, I step back again, openly looking at him. The bruises, the blood on his neck, the old scars and the ink. Beautiful might seem like a strange word to describe somebody like him, but it drifts up in my head now and then.

Turning off the taps, I dip my hand into the water. It's just a little too hot, but maybe that was the point.

"Alright. Get in."

Moving slowly, he steps into the tub, and hisses a little sharply as the heat sends prickled skin racing up his legs and all down his arms. It's right on the edge of being painful, so of course it feels amazing, and it just toes that line even harder as he lowers himself down.

"You did that on purpose," he says, under his breath and barely audible.

"No shit," I grin, grabbing soap and a clean washcloth and sitting down on the edge of the tub.

As soon as he gets settled, I start washing his shoulders, the hollow of his throat, his neck, softening the new scab on his throat, again. The blood runs pink rivulets down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Leaning forward, a little precarious on the edge of the tub, I bend over him and catch the flow of blood with my tongue.

He's just starting to subside into the low hum in his head, lulled by the heat and the gentle touch, when he feels Neil's tongue, just there, and he stiffens, letting out a sound that's more of a sigh than a moan.

The fact that this still completely undoes him, in a way what happened in the alley never could... The day that's no longer true might be the day he actually starts to feel fear again.

Opening my mouth over the bite, I fit my teeth over where someone else's were, sucking just enough to briefly increase the flow, dark and metallic on my tongue.

Sitting back, I squeeze the washcloth out over the wound, rinsing until it runs clear, then I leave it alone to clot again. Once he gets out, I'll deal with disinfecting it for real, but right now, that's not really what this is about.

I'm almost methodical with the rest of it, scrubbing down his shoulders and chest, letting the washcloth dip below the surface of the water but touching him without any real intent other than getting him clean.

"Lean forward," I say, so I can get his back, as promised.

This time he does moan, quiet and loose, his head tilting slightly to the side. It's nowhere near as powerful as it can get, not tipping him down into the deepest part of that warm, dark, safe place in him, but it's a taste of it, and it's one he now understands he needs. It's been a while, in fact. Maybe that's part of why.

He always goes back to that first time just inside Neil's apartment, because in so many ways that was the start of it all. "I belong to you," he breathes as he leans forward, the words a bit slurred, almost as if he's talking in his sleep. Echoing a memory that he's dreaming.

"That's what I been tellin' you," I murmur, using a little more pressure to work some of the kinks out of his back, the water sloshing against the side of the tub, splashing the knee of my sweats.

"I keep lettin' you forget," I say, almost apologetically, the washcloth dropped carelessly across the edge of the tub and my hand working up into his hair.

Standing abruptly, I strip out of my shirt, my sweats, kicking them aside and murmuring, "Scoot up," so I can slip into the tub behind him. We got a big tub just for this, but it's still a snug fit, my knees on either side of him and his back pressed up against my chest.

He's not surprised when it happens, and he slides up in the tub without hesitation, sighing again as he feels Neil pressed against him. He leans back, eyes closed, one hand curled against Neil's shin. But just curled, unable to do much grasping. His hands are always the last to go, folding loosely in on themselves, difficult to use unless he really makes an effort.

Sometimes it amazes him, how Neil can coax him into this state without doing much at all. But it shouldn't. It's a logical progression of conditioning, and he was already primed for it anyway. So he has no room for amazement now. Just the rise and fall of Neil's breathing against his back.

Curling my arms around him, one fitted up around his chest, the other hand curled loosely around his throat, I rest my chin against his shoulder and just let myself enjoy the weight of him.

"Maybe I should pull out the collar more," I murmur, turning to press a kiss to the knob at the top of his spine.

His eyes still closed, he tips his head back slightly, fitting his throat a little more firmly into the curve of Neil's hand. Like this, every other sensation is magnified: the soft echo of Neil's voice, the warm lapping of the water against his skin, even the pain lingering in his muscles and joints.

It all combines into a delightful sensory cocktail, and he makes a quiet noise of agreement, affirmation. Words seem like too much effort.

Maybe I shouldn't give him what he wants, not so easily, but the point of this isn't to try and compete with the intensity of whatever the hell he did tonight. This is the pliant, warm place he settles into when all the other shit falls away.

Tilting his head to the side, I close my mouth over the bite, again, this time pressing blunt teeth into the shape of it, like I can make it my own.

This time it's not even exactly a moan. It's lower, softer, heavier, and he goes completely limp in the cradle of Neil's body, throat utterly exposed. All of him feels exposed, laid so bare that he has no hope of hiding anything even if he wanted to.

There was never a question of resistance. Neil is going to have everything.

Please, he thinks in a flash of coherence, as the sound escaping him twists up into something a little like a sob. Please, God, please. Please.

I know that if I wasn't holding him up, now, he'd sink into the water and probably fuckin' drown. He's completely boneless, a heavy weight against my chest, slipped right into that space somewhere beyond consciousness.

"Okay, okay," I murmur soothingly, my free hand moving over his skin, almost mindlessly petting whatever part of him I can reach, while the other keeps its tight hold on his throat. I bite down harder, opening the wound that someone else put there-- someone who didn't fucking deserve privilege.

Somehow it's never been like this. It's come close, there have been times when it was nearly this kind of relief, but this is a new level he's reached and to the extent that he can do anything anymore, he's exulting in it, the pain in his throat spiderwebbing through his nerves, core of him a warm bloom of dark joy.

He knows he has to be quiet. He can't wake the girls, can't frighten them. But it's almost impossible to hold back. He shouldn't even be able to. He wants to cry out, to let it all go, but it's still just that helpless, broken sound. But it's enough.

He can't believe he's actually still getting to have this. Except he can.

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