Word Count: 13,500
Warnings: Angst, Barebacking, Branding, War Themes, Execution
Pairings: Miles Matheson/Sebastian "Bass" Monroe
Disclaimer: I own my story. The characters in the story belong to themselves.
Summary: After Jeremy's wounds are healed, a series of events lead Miles and Bass on the road to developing the Monroe Republic.
Author's Note: This is my headcanon for how the Monroe Republic really began.
All These Things That I've Done
Miles raked a hand through his hair as he swore under his breath. They'd come across another group of people, stranded, alone and unable to defend themselves. Ever since they'd stopped to help Jeremy it had become a bit of a thing for them, and Miles wasn't exactly sure why. Not everyone they came across was getting the shit kicked out of them; in fact, most of them were fine. They were often hungry, sometimes cold and generally clueless, but fine. They needed to learn how to live in this new world, and stopping for every sad face along the way wasn't doing anyone any favors.
"You stopped for me," Jeremy said, moving to walk next to Miles.
Miles glared at him and wished he weren't so damn perceptive. "Don't make me regret it."
Jeremy gently bumped Miles with his shoulder. Miles was glad they'd stopped for Jeremy, but sometimes he just wished Bass would quit taking on more strays. They were practically a caravan, and everyone they picked up was fully dependent on Miles and Bass to protect them. Once Jeremy had healed, he'd been eager to learn how to defend himself, and Miles was more than happy to teach him. It had been the smartest thing he'd done. It was nice to have someone else to fight beside him, one less liability.
"We're going to be taking on five more. Do we have enough supplies for the night?" Miles asked as he looked up, there wasn't much time left before sundown.
Jeremy followed his gaze. "We'll have to; we can't travel at night with all these people."
"I know." Miles looked ahead. Bass was about twenty yards ahead with the group of thirty or so people that had been "caravanning" with them. The area bothered him. It was out in the open with no natural shelter. Setting a watch would be difficult and they didn't exactly have an army of men. The nights were getting colder as they moved further north, and most of their refugees, as Bass fondly called them, didn't have proper winter clothing. They barely had proper non-winter clothing, and he was sure, it was yet another thing he'd be responsible for. Miles left Jeremy and dashed up to the front to find Bass.
"We can't, Bass."
"We're going to, Miles. I can't just leave them here."
"Yes, actually, we can. We need to. We can't afford to stop. I don't like the area, and if we keep going we can make it to a better place to make camp for the night."
"I know," Miles said tiredly, "but, I had to try. You're a stubborn bastard."
Bass winked. "You'd know."
Miles grumbled something profane under his breath. "You do the introductions. I'm going to get Jeremy and we're going to set up camp in that clearing on the west side of the road."
Three hours later, the camp was established and guard shifts had been allocated. Either Miles or Jeremy were on each shift, alternating to allow them a few hours of sleep throughout the night. Not all the men were incompetent, but he'd been given the responsibility of nearly forty people and they weren't going to die on his watch. Jeremy and Bass were both standing the early morning watch, experience teaching them that more men fell asleep during that period than any other. Once it had cost them a week's worth of rations. Miles ensured something like that would never happen again.
Miles saw someone approaching, he stood from the rock they'd been sitting on, but sat back down when he realized it was Bass.
"What are you two doing up?"
"We're on watch. Your strays need protecting. I can't do that if I'm asleep," Miles snapped.
Bass' face fell, his eyes cast downwards. Miles mentally kicked himself. He was angry and tired, but he'd known Bass was going to make them stop, and he'd stopped so there was really no point in taking it out on him, but damnit the uneasy feeling he'd had all day hadn't gone away.
"We always take the early morning shift," Jeremy explained, voice soft, soothing. "It keeps things running smoothly."
Miles snorted softly. Finding Jeremy was a godsend. He was always playing peacemaker between them. Most of the time he was able to keep Miles from making a complete ass of himself, but times, like tonight, when he was set on being a dick, there was nothing Jeremy could do to help him.
"You two should go get some sleep. Me and John'll take over the watch," Bass offered, voice hesitant.
Miles wanted to object, wanted to demand Bass go back to bed and leave them to their job, but he couldn't stand to hurt Bass anymore than he already had. He was overreacting. Miles smiled and placed his hand on Bass' shoulder. "Okay."
Bass' face lit up and he looked more than a bit relieved; Miles thought Bass forgave him all too easily, but he wasn't stupid enough to point that out now.
"Come on, Jeremy. We have our orders," Miles said with a smile.
Screams woke Miles from his sleep. He rolled from his cot and dashed out of the tent, gun first. The camp was in utter chaos. Miles rushed to where he'd left Bass on watch and swore his heart stopped beating. Bass' head was slumped forward, his body leaning against the boulder. There was blood on his lip, but the most concerning was the wound on his leg. It was bleeding steadily and Miles just hoped it wasn't an artery. He heard footsteps come up behind him and spun around, poised to shoot.
Jeremy stood there with his hands out, "Sorry, man. Didn't mean to sneak up on you."
"What the hell happened?"
Jeremy shook his head. "I don't know, came out about the same time you did."
Miles nodded. He ripped the bottom of his shirt to use as a tourniquet, and tied it above the wound in Bass' leg. He checked for a pulse, half terrified he wouldn't find one. It was there, but it was weak.
"Stay with him. Anyone who isn't me comes near him, shoot them."
Miles could tell Jeremy wanted to question the order, but to his credit, he only nodded. Miles turned and went back to the main camp. Things had begun to settle down after the initial fear subsided and people started to fight back. One of the men from the watch came up to him, breathing hard and sporting the beginnings of a black eye.
"We've caught a few of them. Most of them ran off once people started defending themselves."
"Raiding party," Miles said to himself, more than anything. "Organized and smart."
Miles rubbed his brow. "Get everyone gathered together. Keep the prisoners guarded and separate from everyone else."
The man nodded and left. Miles ran back to Bass. Jeremy was whispering to him, which Miles took as a good sign, at least he was conscious. He motioned to Jeremy.
"Go make sure the guy from first watch is doing what he's supposed to. Gather all the people together, the prisoners separate. Then, find the guy who was on watch with Bass, his name was John. Bring me a doctor or a nurse or anyone who knows anything about medicine."
"Sure thing, Miles."
Miles went over to Bass, he slid to the ground next to him and cradled Bass close to his body. He couldn't speak, could barely breathe, he could only hold onto Bass and hope it wouldn't be the last time. While he waited for Jeremy, Miles swore to himself to never ignore his instincts again, no matter how upset it made Bass.
"They're ready," Jeremy said. "This is Walter, he was a surgeon."
Miles carefully moved Bass back to his original position and stood to his feet. He shook Walter's hand and gripped it tighter when he tried to take his hand back. Miles held the man's gaze.
"If he dies, you die."
Walter, eyes wide, nodded. "We need to get him to a better location. One of the tents, with light, and I'll need clean water."
Miles nodded. "Can I move him without making it worse?"
"We don't have a choice."
Miles reached down and carefully lifted Bass into his arms. Bass moaned, the pain in his voice slicing through Miles like a knife. He cradled Bass' head to his chest and murmured soothing nonsense into Bass' ear, not knowing what else to do. He carried Bass to the tent Walter pointed out to him. As gently as he could, he laid Bass down on the sleeping bag and stepped back to let the surgeon do his job. Miles stood near the tent's door, arms crossed, unable to look away. He didn't know everything the surgeon did, but he knew when he asked Jeremy for some strong liquor that it was going to be painful. He wanted to go over to Bass, hold his hand, take his place, do something. But, he was glued to his spot by the entrance. After what felt like forever, Walter came over to him.
"He's sleeping. The stab was deep and it nearly punctured his artery. The leg's broken, but I've stabilized it. We can't move him for six weeks because I can't put it in a hard cast. He has a couple broken ribs, but there doesn't seem to be any internal bleeding. It'll be a while before he's moving on his own, but he should make a full recovery."
Miles nodded and left the tent. The refugees were still together, huddled in little groups outside what had become the medical tent. Off to the left, the raiders were bound to trees and gagged.
"Jeremy, did you find John?"
"I put him with the raiders. He's tied to one of the trees."
Miles smiled, but it was a cold smile, full of hate, anger and cruel humor. "Good."
"Want them brought over?"
"Just John. Make sure the others can see."
Jeremy nodded. A hush fell over the crowd as John was brought forward. Naturally, rumors ran rampant though the group, they all knew about Bass' injury and how it happened during John's watch.
John looked up, his eyes were wide, red-rimmed as though he'd been crying. Miles felt his smile tighten as mocking laughter threatened burned the back of his throat.
"I fell asleep. The raiders knew we were the watch because they targeted Bass. He killed two of them before they overpowered him."
"And you? What did you do?"
John looked at his feet. "I ran."
Miles knew that, but he wanted everyone to hear John admit it aloud. It would make what came next easier to explain. Miles pulled his gun and shot John in the head. When his body hit the ground, the group gasped. Miles' eyes shot up. He took in their wide eyes, their fear. It made him sick. They were weak and he wasn't going to keep saving people who couldn't save themselves. Not when they become a liability, not when they were responsible for Bass' injury.
"This man fell asleep on watch then ran while we were under attack. Because of his cowardice, some of you are injured, others are dead. We don't have a complete assessment of missing supplies and food, but I'm sure some of that is gone, too. You joined us because you needed to feel safe, because you needed protection. Protection isn't free. Not anymore. From now on, you'll be responsible for your own defense."
"How? You're the marine. It's your job to protect us," a man called out from somewhere in the group.
Miles rolled his eyes. "I'll train all the men willing to join with us. Those of you who refuse are free to leave and go back to making it on your own. If you stay, you will be trained. If you stay and refuse," Miles paused and looked down at John's dead body, "well, it's just better if you leave now."
Miles turned on his heel and walked back to the medical tent. Bass was awake when he walked in, and had a disapproving look on his face.
"You didn't have to shoot him," Bass whispered, voice weak.
Miles sat down next to him. "Who told you?"
"It doesn't matter. You didn't have to shoot him."
"Yes I did."
"He fell asleep, he didn't attack me."
"He's lucky I only shot him."
Miles looked down and stroked Bass' forehead. He couldn't go after Ben anymore. Not when they had a group of people they were taking care of, not when Bass was injured and unable to move. He needed to set up something secure, something permanent. They needed a home. Nomads wouldn't live long in this world. The raiders would just keep coming back until they were all dead.
"We're going to stay here for a while," Miles said as he stroked his fingers down Bass' cheek. "Doc said we can't move you."
"I thought you said you didn't like it here."
"I don't, but now we don't have a choice. I'm going to send Jeremy out with some of the men at first light, have them see what's ahead. Once you're better, we'll find a place to set up. Something permanent."
"What about finding Ben?"
"I'll find him, but you're my family as much as he is. I'm not leaving you."
Bass smiled, "That's my line."
Miles leaned forward and kissed him softly. "It's a good line. Sleep. I'm not going anywhere."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Bass was a horrible patient and no amount of coddling, threatening or ignoring would change his demeanor. Miles swore the next time Bass was this injured he'd do everyone a favor and shoot them both between the eyes. It had started as six weeks, just as the doctor had told them, but then it moved to eight, then to twelve. This was because by about week four, Bass had decided he could get up and hop around on one foot to do various things that could be done just as easily by someone else. Miles had kept himself occupied by training the men and hunting down the bandits. Anything to keep him from hovering over Bass. It was bad enough he had to post a guard inside the tent to ensure Bass followed the doctor's orders and stayed the fuck in bed.
He walked through the lines of men, watching them practice a series of moves Jeremy had taught them. Some of them were taking to it naturally, while others still didn't understand their bodies. Tom Neville, who'd shown up with his wife and young son a few weeks ago had impressed Miles more than anyone other than Jeremy. He came with some hand-to-hand skills and he had a burning desire to protect his family, which Miles learned he'd had to do on a couple of occasions, including a home invasion soon after the blackout. If all the men had Neville's motivation and Jeremy's skills, he'd have an unstoppable army, capable of bringing order to chaos.
"We have a lead on the rebels," Jeremy called as he ran up to Miles.
A slow smile split Miles' face, he'd been dreaming of getting his revenge ever since Bass had been hurt. It finally looked as though he'd get his chance, and now he had trained men, many who were itching to try out their new skills.
"Where are they?" Miles asked as he turned to walk back to the command tent.
Jeremy fell in line beside him. "They appear to be making a new base camp at a farm about ten miles northwest of us. The runner gave the indication that the farmer wasn't actively aiding them."
"No, I imagine not," Miles mumbled distractedly. He was looking down at the map. They'd been chasing the raiders all around the area, but they never seemed to venture further than about fifteen miles away from the encampment. Since they'd probably accumulated too much loot to be mobile, they would need a base, somewhere with storage, somewhere with pre-built buildings. The farm would be a perfect location. All that only worked if the bandits intended to stick around, which Miles doubted.
"We need to get there before they can get themselves set up, or before they pack up and leave. Surprise is our best chance," Miles mused aloud.
The raiders had sent smaller parties to attack them over the weeks, but the attacks had become less frequent as more of the raiders were killed. Miles knew whoever was leading the raiders knew they were still in the same location.
"We'd have to move the whole camp, Miles. That could take days, and we'll lose our advantage."
"I know. Bass can't move fast, not yet, and that's if the doctor clears him to move at all."
"What if we went first?"
Miles looked up and met Jeremy's eyes. It was a crazy, fool-headed idea that Miles would come up with for himself, but he didn't expect it to come from Jeremy. He was supposed to be the levelheaded one, at least, more so than Miles.
"You and I, maybe a couple of the better trained men, we could make good time and take them by surprise."
"We'll be outnumbered, and it's a crazy idea. They'll probably kill us."
"Probably, but we'll have the army coming behind us. They might get there in time to give us a bit of help."
"Bass won't like it."
"Since when has that stopped you?"
"Not the point, but you're right. It's our best shot. If we move the whole camp as a whole, we'll lose them," Miles paused, "Go find the doctor. No use making any plans until we know Bass is safe to move."
Jeremy nodded and left. Miles rubbed his brow. A part of him wanted the doctor to tell him Bass couldn't be moved, then he would have a reason to forgo his foolhardy plan. He wanted to catch the raiders, more than he wanted just about anything, but he knew the idea was stupid, fueled by emotion, and not strategy. He could hear Jeremy's voice in his head, Why start now?
"You wanted to see me?"
Miles turned to face the doctor. "Yes, is Bass okay to move? We need to move, but I won't until Bass is ready."
The doctor paused. "He can move, but not fast and not walking. He'll have to ride in a carriage or something."
"Shit." Miles didn't look forward to the coming discussion. Bass wasn't going to be happy, about any of it.
"Thanks, doctor. We'll be moving at first light."
Miles looked at Jeremy. "Get everyone ready to move. You and I will go ahead of everyone else with Neville following with the main army. Select someone to move the rest of the camp, but make sure there are men to guard Bass."
Jeremy nodded. "When do we leave?"
"We'll leave an hour or so before sunup."
Miles left Jeremy to take care of the preparations and went to the hospital tent. Bass was laying down, which Miles thought was a small miracle. He dismissed the guards and sent the medics out as well since Bass was the only patient.
"Doctor's cleared you to move."
"Really?" Bass asked, disbelieving.
"Yeah, we're moving out a first light."
Miles sighed, Bass knew him too well. "We found the raiders. They're camped out in a farm about fifteen miles northwest of here. I want to get to them before they decided to pack it up and move on."
"Why move the whole camp then? Why not just send some men to go take care of them?"
Miles shook his head as he sat on the edge of Bass' bed. "No good. There are too many of them. They're smart and organized and they have a leader. Jeremy and I are heading out ahead of the main army. Neville will follow with the main army then everyone else. Hopefully, we'll have the raiders taken care of before everyone gets to the farm."
"You want to set up at the farm."
Miles smiled. "Yeah. It makes sense. It's why the raiders went there. If the farmer is still alive when we get there, maybe he'll be willing to teach us how to farm and other things. We can't just keep wandering and hoping we come across useful stuff. It won't last."
"I don't like you and Jeremy going alone."
"It was his idea."
"Clearly he's spent too much time alone with you and your idiotic ideas."
"I know, but it's our best plan."
"You could just wait until the raiders move on to set us up at the farm."
Miles hands clenched into fists, his eyes hard. "No, Bass. I can't."
Bass reached up and stroked Miles face, Miles closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. "I'm fine. The doctor even cleared me to move."
"I'm going, Bass."
"You have to ride in the wagon, though. Doctor's orders."
Bass hand dropped back down and he glared at Miles. "Way to bury the headline."
Miles shrugged. "Can't argue with the doctor."
Bass just stared at Miles incredulously. Miles smiled and leaned forward to kiss Bass. It was deep and tender. Bass wrapped his arms around Miles and tried to pull him closer, but Miles wouldn't let him. He kept himself propped up on his forearms, not allowing any of his weight to land on Bass, mindful of his ribs. Miles moved his lips to Bass' neck, nipping gently as he made his way up to Bass' ear.
"Once we're set up at the farm, I'll put Jeremy and Neville in charge of the men so I can lock you in the bedroom all night."
Miles pulled back, a smirk on his face. "Promise."
An hour before dawn, Jeremy and Miles left the encampment and made their way to the farm. They walked in silence, nothing left to say. Miles' mind was back at the camp, with Bass. He refused to think that this could be the last time he'd see him. The army was an hour behind them, and while it wasn't quite like calling in the marines, the men had worked hard, and it was the best he had.
When he heard the movement to his right, he could just make out the farm. He opened his mouth to call a warning to Jeremy, but he was knocked to the ground before the words left his mouth. He fell with a grunt and moved to stand to his feet, but a boot in his back impeded him. Turning his head to the right, he saw Jeremy was in the same predicament. This wasn't exactly how he'd seen this happening. Sure, he didn't expect to walk all the way to the farm house, knock on the door and ask the raiders to kindly leave, thank you very much, but he'd expected to meet them from his feet, not his stomach. He grunted as his hands were tied tightly behind his back with coarse rope. It would chafe, no matter how much he tried not to move his wrists, and that would upset Bass, which upset Miles. At least they hadn't shot them both on sight. Somehow, he didn't think that excuse would do him much good when Bass arrived at the farm later.
"Get 'em up. Boss'll wanna see 'em," Miles heard one of the men say.
He exchanged a quick look with Jeremy, his slight head nod letting Miles know he was okay before they were marched to the farm. Miles found it odd that he still had both his M9 and his KA-BAR attached to his belt, not that either of them helped him at the moment, his hands tied behind his back as they were, but it didn't seem smart to let him keep his weapons. They were taken to the farmhouse. The raiders put them inside the closet underneath the stairwell, and secured them to a pipe that ran along the length of the closet.
"Boss isn't back yet. Don't make any trouble."
Miles nodded, his face a façade of seriousness. Jeremy smirked. It was working out fairly well so far, considering the plan was a bad idea from the beginning and hadn't gotten any better during its execution. The longer the boss was a way, the more time the rest of the army had to get to the farm.
Miles guessed it was about forty-five minutes before someone came to get them. He and Jeremy kept quiet, not wanting to speed things along by having one of the raiders get twitchy. Miles didn't struggle when the man came in and untied his hands from the pole only to retie them behind his back, and he was happy that Jeremy was following his lead.
"Boss wants to meet you. He was real happy when I told him we'd caught the leader of the little camping group."
Miles smiled. "Happy to help."
He saw the man's eyes darken, but he just yanked Miles forward more roughly than was strictly necessary. Apparently, the boss had given orders, but why they hadn't been relieved of his weapons still bothered him. It meant their boss had so many men that even if Miles and Jeremy both emptied their magazines he'd still have enough men left to kill them both, or he was just so over-confident that he viewed himself as untouchable. Neither reason made Miles feel any better about the situation.
"Here they are, boss."
"Gentleman," a man in his mid-forties greeted, fake smile on his face, "Welcome. I trust you've been treated well?"
"The foot to the back was a little unpleasant," Miles replied.
"You are trespassing, but that's not important now. Your little group has been causing me all sorts of problems. My men tell me you're the leader of the group. Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement."
"I don't suppose you'd just let us go," Miles said, voice hopeful.
"You've killed too many of my men for that."
"Right, that's what I thought. Well, let's get it over with then."
The man looked at him, head tilted to the side. "That's it? No negotiating?"
"That was the negotiation. You let us go, we don't kill you."
The man threw his head back and laughed. His men joined him, until the sounds of gunfire and fighting could be heard over their raucous laughter. Miles' face softened into what was almost sympathy.
"Every time," Miles began, "Why don't they just listen to me?"
Miles used the confusion to his advantage, and threw his head back, hitting the man behind him in the face before jumping to the side, just missing a swipe at his head. Looking around, Miles saw Jeremy was doing much the same, adding a vicious kick to one of the raiders. The men not on the ground crowded around their leader as the door splintered open, Neville leading a group of six men inside.
"Sir," he greeted. Neville nodded to one of the men who came forward and released Miles and Jeremy.
"Excellent timing, Neville. Kill everyone but the leader. I want him brought outside."
Neville smiled. "Yes, sir."
Miles went outside. His men had secured the area and were already moving the bodies into a large pile. His eyes landed on Bass and he cut a direct path to him. Bass looked both irate and relieved; Miles smiled softly, some things never change.
"Hi," Miles greeted.
"Remind me to kill Jeremy later."
"For indulging your fool ideas. He's supposed to know better. That's why I keep him around, to keep you in line."
"Ah," Miles said as he leaned down to kiss Bass quickly.
"Miles, we found the farmer," Jeremy said.
Miles turned around. "That's very good news. Is he hurt?"
"A few bruises, the doctor's looking him over now."
"That's very good news. When the doctor's done, bring him over to the farm house."
Miles helped Bass from the cart and draped his arm over his shoulder. "If you don't put most of your weight on me, I'm going to carry you."
Bass mumbled something about not being some damsel in distress, but did as Miles asked. They walked over to the farm house and Miles settled Bass in the rocking chair on the front porch. The normalcy of the moment, of seeing Bass sitting in a rocking chair on a farmhouse porch threw Miles for a moment. It was the most bittersweet thing he'd seen in a while.
"Miles, this is Jack," Jeremy introduced.
"I understand this is your farm," Miles said.
"It is and you've got it back for me."
Miles smiled. "It was my pleasure. I've caught the man who was leading the raiders and I was going to have him executed, unless you object."
Jack's face dropped, but his eyes were steely. "I'm not a violent man, but the raiders killed my wife and locked me in the cellar. Jesus forgives. I'm not Jesus."
"Well said," Bass said. "You can wait inside if you want."
Jack inclined his head. "Thanks, but if it's all the same to you, I'll watch."
"Of course," Bass answered.
Miles walked to where his men were restraining the leader. A sword was strapped to his waist. The hilt was gold and designed like brass knuckles, it appealed to Miles. He took the whole belt off the man and pulled the sword free. He didn't know much about swords, but he liked the way it felt in his hand.
"This is a nice weapon."
Images of Bass, bloody lip, bloody leg, and memories of the long days waiting for Bass to heal, all of it pooled in Miles' mind and with a cry, he threw the blade in a long arch, slicing through the man's neck. It was harder than pulling the trigger, but he liked it better. He pulled the sword free and watched the blood drip from the blade's edge. Miles bent down and wiped the blade clean on the ground before adding the sword to his hip.
Miles turned to Neville. "Have the bodies burned, then set up camp."
When he was back at the farmhouse, Bass and Jack were talking. Bass met his eyes over Jack's head and Miles didn't like the look of almost pity in Bass' eyes, but he ignored it.
"I was just telling Jack about our group of refugees," Bass said, pulling Miles into the conversation. "He's willing to let us stay, set up a permanent camp. He'll even teach the men and women how to farm and raise animals."
Miles smiled at Jack. "Thank you. We appreciate your help."
Jack returned the smile. "You men are doing something good here. I'm happy to be a part of it."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Miles stared at Bass as though he'd lost his goddamned mind. These were serious border negotiations with the southern militia. Everything they'd been working on for the past few months was about to blow up in their face all because Bass wanted to have the right aesthetic.
"You want all the canvas we have?"
Bass smiled. "Yes."
"What do we get out of this deal?"
Miles laughed. "We quit killing all your men. We'll establish the five-mile neutral zone on either side of the line to keep the peace."
There was a long pause where Miles feared he'd have to resort to more serious measures. Or worse, that they'd refuse. He knew he wouldn't talk Bass out of the canvas, he'd tried to for weeks.
"I'll have the canvas to the Kentucky-Iowa border in a week."
Bass nodded. "We'll have men there to receive the shipment. We'll have the zone established by then as well."
Miles and Bass stood from the table; they shook hands with the Georgia Federation representatives before leaving the building. Jeremy was waiting for them with a small contingent of men and they walked in silence through what would soon become the neutral zone. They left the men at the outpost before the three of them continued on to their temporary headquarters in what used to be Ohio.
"Before we enter into any more border negotiations, Bass, are there any other Martha Stuart items I'm going to have to get for you?"
Jeremy started laughing. They'd all had this conversation before, but Miles had thought Bass was joking. All this talk about uniformity, about aesthetic, about making a show of themselves, it all sounded like bullshit to him, but it made Bass happy. Miles figured it didn't really matter what they looked like so long as they were the ones winning, so he'd quit arguing about it.
"I told you I wanted canvas tents," Bass said as he took off his jacket.
"And I got them for you, but I'd like to know if I need to get you an antique writing desk or a porcelain basin the next time we enter into negotiations."Miles didn't trust the calculating look in Bass' eyes. "You did promise me. It'll make us look more professional."
"You know we'll look like an Eddie Bauer ad."
"You put my name on it, we have to look good. Now we won't look like a refugee camp."
"He could make you start wearing a top hat and tailcoats," Jeremy suggested.
Bass looked Miles up and down, a teasing smile playing on his lips. Miles shook his head as he crossed the room to pour himself a drink. He took a sip of the scotch, the good stuff from further north, walked up behind Bass and placed his free hand possessively on his hip.
"Don't get any ideas, Marine," Miles whispered.
"I think I'll leave you boys to finish your interior decorating and see you in the morning."
Miles raised his glass to Jeremy. "Night, Jeremy."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
They heard the gunfire seconds before Lieutenant Neville came crashing through the door. "It's an uprising. Fighting's broken out among the men. Something about reunifying America."
Miles rolled his eyes. They didn't get it. The world as they knew it was gone, erased overnight. There was no more USA, there was no more unified anything. He checked his magazine before sliding back it back into his M9. He also strapped on his sword belt and KA-BAR. Cautiously, he made his way outside, skirting the side of the building, not wanting his head blown off before things really got started. From the cover of the building he took in the scene, it wasn't as bad as he'd first thought, but there was already a high body count.
The worst part for Miles was that he couldn't determine who were fighting for the militia and who were fighting for the pipe dream of a reunified USA. Realizing he was wasting time analyzing a helpless situation, Miles put himself into the fray. He poured his frustration into his fighting, allowing himself to kill anyone who attacked him without taking time to think about who he might be killing. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped those loyal to the militia were smart enough not to attack him. It didn't take him long to use all fifteen rounds, realizing that meant he'd killed fifteen men. They kept coming.
He had his sword in one hand and his KA-BAR in the other as he continued to fight his way through the chaos. He spotted Jeremy in the distance and made his way towards him.
"I need you to secure the armory. Take whoever you trust with you, but no one gets a gun."
Jeremy nodded, took two men near him and moved off towards the right. Miles hoped that would keep the gunfire from starting up again, since it appeared those who had guns when the skirmish broke out were now out of bullets. Miles felt the burn as a sword cut through his shoulder. He jabbed his KA-BAR into his attacker's thigh and spun around to slice his throat with his sword. Just as he was about to turn back, he ducked down to avoid another wild swing. It gave him a chance to pull his KA-BAR free and throw it at the man closest to him. He sliced three more men open on his way to retrieve his KA-BAR. Miles met Bass' eyes across the field and realized he'd killed twenty men without hesitating. He lost Bass in the sea of violence as he had to move to avoid a vicious swipe at his neck.
After about half an hour the fighting ended. Lieutenant Neville and Jeremy both had restrained men who were alive because they knew something about the uprising. Miles had them secured and guarded while everyone went around cleaning up the devastation. The field hospital had to be expanded into some of the sleeping quarters and those who were fit enough were sent out to cut and gather wood for a giant fire. Resistance fighters wouldn't be buried and since Miles had no way of knowing one from the other, they would all burn. Once all the necessary orders had been given, Miles allowed himself to be moved to the field hospital so someone could sew up his shoulder. That's where Bass found him, a haunted look in his eyes. Miles didn't want to think about what Bass saw in his eyes. Other than some bruises and minor scrapes, Bass looked healthy enough, given the circumstances, and Miles began to breathe a bit easier.
It was well after dusk before things were back to a state of semi-order. Miles, Bass and Jeremy had both had a chance to clean themselves up and put on clean uniforms. Lieutenant Neville was preparing the survivors for their interrogation and execution. Miles wanted answers. His shoulder ached and Bass hadn't said more than was strictly necessary to prove he was still conscious since the fighting broke out and it had him worried. He wanted answers and then he wanted heads. Miles stood to Bass' right, Jeremy to Bass' left as Lieutenant Neville and two of his men brought in the prisoners. They were bloody and weary, but still had fire and determination in their eyes. Miles couldn't help but admire the conviction, he just wished it wasn't for a lost cause.
"You're responsible for the death of 139 people. Brave men who were fighting to protect the people of this area. And for what?" Bass asked.
"We signed up as Americans to be part of the militia. We thought we were all fighting for the same thing," one of the prisoners said.
"There's no such thing as Americans or America anymore," Miles told them. "You're fighting for something that doesn't exist. What was your plan? What's the big plan to reunite the United States?"
"We thought that's what the militia was working towards, gaining strength so we could convince the other areas to unify. We didn't sign up to fight for you," the same prisoner answered with a nod towards Bass.
"No one is fighting for me. We're not doing this to fight anyone. We're here to protect people, to keep them save," Bass answered, voice earnest. "We're fighting for the people."
"We're not alone. You can kill us, but that won't be enough. The rebellion is alive in other areas, it's alive out there."
"You're right," Miles began, voice soft, "We can kill you, and we will, don't worry, and those other rebels will die, too. We'll find them, we'll hunt them down and we'll kill them."
"In the morning," Bass interjected, "We'll kill these men in the morning. In front of everyone. I want them to know that those responsible for so much death have been dealt with."
"That's a huge security breach. We should kill them tonight."
"Enough people have died today, Miles. They'll wait until morning."
"Bass - "
"Miles, not tonight."
Miles grit his teeth. He refused to get into an argument with Bass in front of Neville. He was sure some of the rebel fighters had fled during the battle, at least that's what he would have done. Retreat to gain a better base for a larger attack. Men with conviction did things like that, made decisions that were dangerous. He would know. Miles could read the need for a public execution, for the closure, in Bass' eyes. Miles would give him one night. He nodded to Neville, who quickly moved the prisoners out of the tent.
Miles turned to Jeremy. "I want them under constant watch. At least three men awake and watching them at all times between now and when we kill them. No mistakes, no excuses."
Alone, with nothing official to do, the silence was stifling. Miles watched Bass retreat into himself. His eyes were wide and lost as he wandered around the room aimlessly. Miles didn't know what to say, there really weren't any words. No one saw this coming. He poured a drink and walked over to where Bass had stopped, eyes still unfocused.
"Drink this," Miles ordered as he put the glass in Bass' hand.
Bass nodded absently as he took the glass. He didn't drink, though, just stared into the glass with the same absent look.
Bass glanced at him then looked back at the drink before finally bringing it to his lips. Miles let out the breath he'd been holding, knowing the drink wasn't enough, but it was a start.
"We lost a lot of men, Miles," Bass whispered.
Miles nodded. Bass slid into the chair and swirled the remnants of the whiskey around the base of the glass.
"This can't happen again. We can't just slaughter our own men."
"I know. We'll figure something out. I won't let this happen again. We'll make an example of the rebels tomorrow and squash the rebellion before it becomes an issue. And we'll find a way to identify our men."
"You really think that's going to fix the problem?" Bass stared at Miles. "A show of brutal and absolute force isn't going to be enough this time. These weren't outsiders attacking us. These were our men who were confused about what we were fighting for."
"It's worked so far," Miles retorted, defensive.
"That's when it's been outsiders," Bass stood and ran a hand through his hair. "These were our own men. They need to know what we're fighting for, they need to be fighting with us, not against us or this will just happen again. We can't afford another uprising."
"So what do you want to do, Bass? A slap on the wrist? A sorry about the confusion, better luck next time?"
"Don't be stupid, Miles. You know that's not what I mean. The men don't know what we're fighting for," Bass looked up at Miles. "Do you even know what we're fighting for anymore?"
Miles walked to Bass and put his hands on his shoulders. "We're doing exactly what you told the prisoners we're doing. We're not fighting to fight. We're here to keep the people of the area safe. We're here to keep the people of your area safe, Bass. Now, if we need to remind them men of this, if we need to put it into writing, then that's what we'll do. I told you I'd fix this, and I will."
"Okay. I'm trusting you to fix this."
Miles nodded and kissed Bass gently. "I'm going to check in on the prisoners. You okay?"
Bass nodded. "Yeah, I'm good."
Miles rubbed his brow as he left Bass. He nodded to the sentries as he walked a bit aimlessly around the camp. He walked over to where the hospital had been set up, waving the men down as they rose to greet him. Most of the injuries were treatable, cuts like his that would likely scar, but weren't life threatening. Unfortunately, that meant everyone else was dead. As he walked through the tent, he stopped to check in with those who were awake. There wasn't much he could do for them, but he hoped just being around would help to lift morale. On his way out, he checked in with the head field surgeon to ensure they had enough supplies and men to see to the injured men's needs. They did, which meant there was nothing he could do other than thank the men for their efforts.
Jeremy and a squad of six men were standing in front of a small tent. Miles was pleased to see they'd taken his order to heart. They all straightened at his approach.
"Jeremy, walk with me."
Miles waited while Jeremy gave instructions to the men before he turned and led them to the perimeter. They walked for a few minutes, Miles glad Jeremy wasn't trying to fill the silence. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do about their internal issues, but he'd told Bass he'd figure it out and he would.
"We need a way to keep the men loyal to Bass. They need to buy into what we're doing here. There's no America. There probably won't be an America again. The Republic's all we've got."
"Most of them know that, Miles. They're not all stupid."
"After today, that's not enough. We need to know they're loyal and that they'll stay loyal. If something like this happens again Bass will kill me, and I'll let him."
"It won't happen again. The men saw how you handled the situation and after the execution tomorrow, they'll know the penalty."
"We still need a way to identify them, a way for everyone else to identify them. The uniforms aren't enough."
"What, like a secret handshake?"
"If we had the tools, I'd give them all a tattoo."
Jeremy stopped walking and looked up at Miles. "I've got an idea, but I don't think you're going to like it."
Miles' eyebrows shot up as he smirked at Jeremy. A bad idea was better than no idea. "Well, let's have it."
"Since we can't give them a tattoo, we could use a brand."
"A bit crude, but yeah. Give them all a brand. Have them say some sort of oath or something and give them the brand. Make it a rite of passage, a tradition, something they earn. Have it become something they wear with pride."
"Bass isn't going to like it."
Jeremy nodded. "That's why you'll have to convince him it's what we need to do."
"I don't think that will be enough."
Jeremy smiled and Miles didn't know if he liked the implications of the smile. "He'll say yes to you."
Miles shook his head. "He's going to hate this."
Jeremy clapped a hand on his shoulder. "That's why you're the one who's going to tell him."
"You're coming with me," Miles said with his own smile as he removed Jeremy's hand from his shoulder. "This was your idea."
They walked back to the command house. Miles wasn't sure he wanted to tell Bass about their branding idea, especially with the execution in the morning, but he didn't know if he could put it off for very long. It's not like there was a good time to tell Bass they were going to use a piece of red-hot iron to brand their men.
"Like a band aid, tell him fast," Jeremy whispered.
"Thanks for your expert advice." Miles rolled his eyes.
Bass was sprawled across a high-winged chair in front of the fireplace in the living room. A mostly empty glass of whiskey dangled precariously in his hand. He hadn't even moved when they'd come in and Miles was glad he'd left a few men standing guard outside, but he was more than a bit concerned about Bass. He shot a look at Jeremy, who looked as concerned as he felt.
"Hey, guys," Bass slurred. "I'm finding animals in the flames."
Miles looked over at the table; the decanter of whiskey was nearly empty.
"We'll deal with it later, Jeremy. You can go do whatever it is you need to do."
Jeremy nodded. "Sure thing, Miles. See you tomorrow."
Miles walked over and squatted down in front of Bass. There was a drunken smile on his lips, but the same haunted look in his eyes. Clearly, the liquor hadn't had the medicinal affect Bass had been hoping for.
"Come on, buddy. Let's go to bed. We have a busy day tomorrow," Miles said as he slung Bass' arm around his shoulder and began to lift him up from the chair.
"Can't go to sleep. Have to kill people in the morning."
Miles closed his eyes as his heart clenched.
"You don't have to kill anyone, Bass."
Bass' bleary eyes worked hard to focus on his face. "I said they had to die. I have to kill them."
There wasn't anything to say to that. If Bass determined that he needed to do this, then Miles would let him, and hopefully he'd be able to put the pieces back together later. He half-dragged half-carried Bass to bed. Bass had quit actively putting together semi-complete sentences and was now just mumbling bits of words from sentences he'd used earlier. Things like, "Gotta kill, can't sleep, can't kill." Miles worked Bass' jacket and boots off, not bothering with the rest before settling him in bed. After stripping down to just his trousers, Miles climbed into bed. Bass immediately burrowed against his side, his words fading into intermittent whimpers. Miles held him close, running his fingers through Bass' hair, trying to be as soothing as possible. He hadn't felt this powerless since the lights went out.
Miles woke up with the sun, alone. The space next to him was cold. Yesterday's events replayed through his mind like a high-def nightmare. He didn't know which was worse, basically slaughtering his men, or finding a drunken, incoherent Bass. He rose and dressed, splashing cold water on his face to wake him up fully. He found Bass in the living room, standing next to the desk, looking at the empty bottle of whiskey.
"Have Jeremy get them ready."
Miles nodded and left Bass to his thoughts. He didn't know what else to do. Miles brought the prisoners to the front of the formation he'd had Jeremy assemble. Once it was all ready, Bass strode from the house, full uniform, sword shining in the early morning sun. Miles couldn't take his eyes off him. He walked as though he owned the world and nothing could touch him. It was a heady combination, but the look in Bass' eyes was more effective than a bucket of cold water. There was nothing in his gaze.
"These men are responsible for the deaths of 139 men. Your men, your friends. They have caused discord and tried to start a rebellion. The penalty for their foolish actions is death."
Miles watched Bass closely. This was the first time he'd done an execution like this. Bass' face gave nothing away as he reached for his M9. He quickly and efficiently fired four shots. Each man fell to the ground, a bullet in the middle of his forehead.
"If you follow their example, you will share their fate."
Bass looked at Jeremy. "Burn the bodies."
- Current Mood: sleepy
Word Count: ~4,000
Warnings: Angst, Barebacking
Pairings: Miles Matheson/Sebastian "Bass" Monroe
Miles didn't fight them as they locked the handcuffs around his wrists. He didn't struggle as he was manhandled onto the train. Most of these men only knew him by reputation, stories they'd heard about him. No doubt they used more force than necessary to show their bravado, to mask their fear. If they'd believed the stories then they knew Miles Matheson was never captured. Miles Matheson was never taken by force. He'd heard the stories enough himself from his hideout behind the bar. He'd scoffed the first time he'd heard them; they made him sound like a god.He didn't speak to anyone as they rode the train to Philadelphia. Miles never thought he'd be on a train again. Sure, Bass had talked about it, made plans for it, but Miles had figured it was all a pipe dream, one that helped Bass sleep at night. He knew differently now. Bass' dreams had a pesky way of becoming reality.
"We're nearly to Philadelphia."
Miles didn't respond; he was happy they were almost there. The cuffs were beginning to chafe. They dragged him off the train and into what used to be Independence Hall. This all would have been so much easier if Charlie had just let Jeremy capture him. But, no, she had to rescue him. Only to have him get captured by a bunch of soldiers who didn't know the first thing about him. Strangers bringing him back to Bass; it was just embarrassing. Coming back with Jeremy would have at least had some pride in it.
They shoved him through the doors and he just managed to keep his feet. Not exactly the entrance he wanted. He watched Bass stand from his desk. He looked different than Miles remembered; there was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before, something about the stoop of his shoulders, and the dark circles under his eyes.
"Release him," Bass ordered.
"Sir?" the young man who'd shoved him through the door questioned.
"Take off the cuffs."
"But sir - "
Bass shot the young man through the head before he could finish his question.
Miles smirked and shook his head. "A bit much, don't you think?"
When Bass turned his cold gaze on him, Miles almost wished he'd kept his mouth shut. There was a hard edge to his look that Miles had never had directed at him and he found he wasn't too sure he ever wanted to see that look directed at him again. Not that he didn't deserve it.
"I was going to have to repeat myself a third time." Bass moved from his desk to stand directly in front of Miles. "I forgive once, Miles. Not twice."
Bass took a step back and Miles let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He watched as Bass assessed the room.
"If Miles Matheson, General of the Monroe Militia, wanted to kill me, he wouldn't come in handcuffs. I expected him to be treated with respect; he's earned that much from you."
Miles watched the men shift uncomfortably under the weight of Bass' announcement.
"Remove the handcuffs and leave us."
The soldier nearest Miles fumbled to do as he was commanded as quickly as possible. Once his wrists were free, Miles rolled his wrists, trying not to show how sore they were.
"I should have you killed."
"Yeah, I know."
From his place by the door, Miles watched Bass' movements. Bass' eyes were fixed, intense, but he carried himself like a feral dog, one who had been kicked once too often. Miles didn't know what to do, didn't know what Bass wanted, how he would react.
"Where were you?" It wasn't a question; it was an accusation.
Miles kept his voice as even as possible. "Chicago. I ran a bar."
"You ran a bar."
Bass spun on his heel, hands behind his back, and Miles could see the tension in his neck as he almost literally held himself back. Miles couldn't figure out what had Bass so on edge. He found himself scanning the room, looking for whatever had Bass so tense.
"Glad to see you're making something of yourself in the world."
There was so much derision in the comment. Miles bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep quiet. Why the fuck did Bass care if he was out running a bar or drinking himself to death? None of it affected his control of the area; Miles had seen to that. His whole goal had been to disappear and remain under the radar. Not that Charlie and company would ever understand that. What had Ben been thinking? Why would he send Charlie to him? Didn't he know it wouldn't end well? He wasn't lying when he told Charlie they'd all end up on pikes.
Bass spun around to face him. "When were you planning on coming home?"
Miles furrowed his brow. "I wasn't planning on coming back, Bass."
His head whipped to the side under the force of Bass' blow. He hadn't seen it coming. Miles slid his tongue out to taste the blood. He figured in the scheme of things, he probably had that one coming, but still Bass had never been like this before.
"You just left," Bass began as he stepped forward into Miles' space.
Wary now, Miles kept his eyes locked on Bass. He adjusted his stance, squared his shoulders, held his arms loose at his sides; he'd give Bass one hit. He paid attention to the way the muscles in Bass' arms were coiled tightly, like a snake preparing to strike. He wouldn’t be caught unaware again.
"I don't hear anything from you for thirty-two months." Bass moved further into Miles' personal space. "Why didn't you just come home?"
Miles swallowed thickly. Bass' breath was warm against his cheek. Miles closed his eyes as Bass brought his hand up and caressed his cheek.
"You don’t have to be afraid of me. I'd never hurt you."
Miles wondered who he was trying to convince. Right now, he thought Bass just might try to hurt him.
"You didn't have to come home this way. You didn't have to be brought in here like a prisoner."
"I didn't intend to come back at all, Bass. If you kept Neville on a shorter leash, I wouldn't be here."
Bass moved away so quickly Miles stumbled forward. Bass went to stand in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back. The sun was going down; Miles moved to the desk, found the matches and walked around the room, lighting the lanterns. He stared at Bass for a long, waiting for him to make the next move. When he didn't, Miles poured himself a drink. He took a large swallow of the whiskey and it burned pleasantly as it slid down his throat. Miles raised his glass in mock salute; Bass still wasn't facing him. This was dumb; they hadn't talked about anything and no one was dead. They were just in some odd standoff and it was driving Miles out of his mind.
"You still haven't told me why I'm not dead. You could have ordered me shot on sight. That's the way I wrote it."
"You really think I wanted you back just so I could shoot you?" Miles asked, his back still to Miles.
Miles shrugged. "I would."
It was brief, but Miles saw Bass' spine stiffen. Maybe he should go back to choosing his words carefully.
"Why did you leave?"
Miles poured himself another drink. After a beat, he poured one for Bass, too.
"Let's not do this, Sebastian."
Bass stormed towards him. Miles crossed his arms in front of him, eyes narrowed on Bass' approach.
"You," Bass said as he poked Miles' chest, "left in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye and you think you get to come back without an explanation?"
Miles exhaled deeply through his nose. He picked up his glass and took another large swallow, hoping the burn of the liquor would erase the burn in his chest. Bass was wearing on his last nerve. He didn't owe anyone anything. Miles took another swig of the whiskey. He was back, and he wasn't leaving. Not again. He hadn't known that when he came stumbling through the door, but it was true. Standing here, in front of Bass, even spitting fire as he was, Miles knew he couldn't leave. Couldn't kill him either, as tempting as it was at this particular moment and Bass already said he wasn't going to have him killed.
"I'm staying, Bass. That's all you need to know."
Every muscle in Bass' body was tight as he stepped back, and turned his back on Miles. Miles dropped his arms and set the now empty glass back on the desk. Bass spun on his heel, poised to strike, but Miles was ready this time. He easily deflected Bass' attack. He changed his grip on Bass' arm, twisted it behind him and forced him down across the desk. Miles leaned over Bass to whisper in his ear.
"Do not," Miles pulled Bass' arm tighter, "take a swing at me again unless you intend to kill me."
Breathing hard, Miles released him and took several steps back from the desk. He needed to put some space between himself and Bass before he did something he'd regret.
At first, Bass didn't move. Miles almost went to him, but stopped himself; he knew he hadn't hurt him. He watched as Bass slowly righted himself. His hand was shaking a bit as he reached for the glass of whiskey Miles had poured. Bass tossed the whole thing back. When he set the glass down, he wasn't shaking anymore.
"Why can't you just tell me why you left? And now I'm supposed to believe you're back? Your word used to mean everything to me. Three years ago, I would have believed anything you told me, without question. But now? I don't know who the hell you are."
Miles felt each question like a physical blow.
"How did it all fall apart so fast?" Miles wasn't sure who he was asking.
Bass didn't say anything, not that Miles expected him to, not that there was really an answer.
"When we started this we were helping people, Bass. We were protecting people who couldn't protect themselves. We were giving order to chaos. But now? Now what do you have? You have an empire built on fear and pain and death."
"You think this is my empire?" Bass' words were barely above a whisper.
Miles tracked him as Bass took measured steps closer until they were practically nose-to-nose.
"You built this empire. Fifteen years ago you decided to start killing people."
"I was saving him."
"You shot two people in the head, Miles."
"I thought it was the right thing at the time."
Bass' eyes were hard as he looked at Miles. "You don't get to stand in judgment over me. You made the militia."
"You were right there with me, Sebastian."
"You became the God of a new empire. It was amazing to watch. You did what needed to be done, and you did it with passion. How could I do anything but get swept up with it?"
Bass moved back. He paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. Miles watched him. Noted the way he carried himself. Even in here, when it was just the two of them Bass was the Republic.
"Do you know what it was like? Watching you turn into the Commanding General of the Republic? Watching you kill people, watching you become an expert in killing?" Bass turned to face him, an open look on his face. "I've never been as good at it as you."
Miles moved to Bass, forced him to stop the incessant pacing. He gently cupped his face. "I never wanted you to be. I saw what it did to you, watched you change. You used to be the one to hold me back, to tell me to stop." Miles' eyes turned hard and he moved away from Bass. "Then you just gave up. There was no one to stop me anymore and everything just became so much more complicated."
"All of this was your idea, Miles, and you left. Made me the name of your empire and then left me alone to deal with it all. What did you think would happen?"
Miles didn't have an answer. He didn't know what he'd expected when he'd left. He just did. He ducked out in the middle of the night without telling anyone. Like a coward, without saying goodbye. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't blame Bass; deep down, he knew he never really had. It was on him. Just as Jeremy had told the rebels, he was the "Commanding General of the Monroe Militia, damn founding father of the Republic", and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to change that.
"Come here," Miles said.
He watched Bass hesitate for the briefest of moments before he walked over to him. Miles reached out and gripped the back of Bass' neck, forcing their eyes to meet.
The words weren't enough, they would never be enough, but Miles just hoped Bass could read everything he wanted to say in his eyes. Miles was way past the point where he could turn back, had been before he left. He'd meant what he told Bass; he wasn't leaving, he couldn't.
Bass' eyes weren't cold anymore, not like they had been when he'd first come through the door. They weren't warm, he didn't deserve that, but they weren't cold and that was something. Miles pulled Bass to him and captured his lips in a kiss. He'd meant for it to be gentle, coaxing, but Bass had other ideas. He felt Bass bite his lip, reopening the recent cut. Miles growled as he tasted his own blood. He changed the kiss; forcing his tongue into Bass' mouth, nipped at Bass' lips until he was moaning against him.
Miles wrapped one arm around Bass' chest while the other held his neck, his thumb stroking his Adam's apple. He walked them to the desk and swept it clear. He vaguely heard everything crash to the ground before he forced Bass down on the desk. Miles stood over him, taking in the sight of Bass in his full military dress, the leather jacket over the flat-collared blue shirt, the metal "M"'s reflecting the lantern light. Bass reached for the buttons on his jacket, but Miles batted his hands away. He bent forward and kissed Bass roughly, his fingers working the buttons free. Once he had the shirt open, he hauled Bass up, shoved the material off his shoulders and tossed it carelessly to the ground.
Palm flat against Bass' chest, Miles pressed him back down against the desk. He slid his hand up to circle Bass' neck before he leaned forward and sucked Bass' nipple into his mouth. He rocked his hips against Bass' as Miles bit his nipple. He nipped his way across Bass' chest, feeling the way Bass writhed beneath him. He slid up Bass' body and kissed him long and deep, forcing his tongue in his mouth.
Miles stood up and tore his jacket and shirt off, tossing them on the floor with Bass' discarded uniform. He watched Bass' eyes trail over his torso, watched them travel below his waist, where his erection was straining against his trousers. Miles reached down and unbuttoned his trousers, and let the material fall to his ankles. Bass sat up and Miles took a step back so Bass could slide to his knees. When Bass took Miles' dick in hand, Miles sucked in a breath through his teeth. Bass darted forward and licked the tip teasingly before stroking it with his hand. Miles groaned when Bass finally took his dick in his mouth; he was warm and wet and hollowed his cheeks just like Miles remembered.
Then Bass scraped his teeth against Miles' dick; he jerked, not expecting the pain. It wasn't a teasing brush of teeth against his sensitive flesh. Miles figured Bass was a breath away from taking a healthy bite out of his dick. Before he could confirm or deny his theory, Miles grabbed a handful of Bass' hair and tilted his head back. He watched the emotions flit across Bass' face, the lust, the hurt, the confusion, the pain. Miles grabbed his dick and put it back in Bass' mouth, thrust it in and out of Bass. He wouldn't last long if he kept this up, and he wanted to come buried deep in Bass' ass. Slowly, he pulled his dick from Bass' mouth and bent over to kiss him. He brought his hand up to Bass' neck, rubbing his thumb lightly along his pulse point before pulling him to his feet. Miles reached down, undid Bass' trousers and shoved them down his legs.
Bass stepped out of his trousers as he turned to face the desk. Miles ran his hands down Bass' back until they rested on his ass. Miles palmed the flesh, savoring the feel of it once more. He gave a swift slap to one cheek before soothing it with his palm. He ran his hands back up Bass' back, pushing him down onto the desk. Miles molded himself to Bass' back, slowly rocking his dick against his ass, teasing them both. He kissed the back of Bass' neck before he stood, trailing his fingers teasingly down Bass' spine. For a moment, he just stared down at Bass, naked, ass up, waiting for him. He was struck by how much he'd missed this, not just the sex, but having someone who needed as much as he needed. He'd been lonely in Chicago.
Miles bit his ass, smiling as he heard Bass whine in the back of his throat. Miles helped Bass roll over onto his back so that Miles could take Bass' dick in his mouth. He felt it brush the back of his throat and swallowed, repeating the action as Bass thrashed above him. Miles moved his hand up, pressing it against Bass' torso to hold him still. Miles continued to suck him deep and slow. When Bass took his fingers and sucked them into his mouth, Miles pulled off him and groaned. He closed his eyes, feeling Bass' tongue swirl around his fingers, and tried to compose himself.
Miles opened the top right drawer, and rummaged around until he found the jar. He smiled, pleased to find the oil was still in the desk. He pulled it out and set it on the desk next to Bass' hip. Miles pulled his fingers from Bass' mouth and rubbed them against Bass' hole, allowing his saliva to wet the puckered hole. Slowly, he pushed just the tip of his index finger inside, feeling Bass stretch around him. He was tight, so fucking tight. Bass hadn't been with anyone. He hadn't either, and he hadn't expected Bass to have been with someone, but the realization still made his heart clench painfully. He pulled his finger out and slid up Bass' body, capturing his mouth in a possessive kiss. He bit and nipped more than anything else. Bass tilted his head to the side and Miles latched onto the corded muscle of his neck. He bit hard enough to sting, to leave a mark, and felt as well as heard Bass moan beneath him.
Miles slid back down Bass' body and coated his index finger with oil before pushing it in Bass' hole. He felt the muscles clench down around him and he brought his free hand up to rest on Bass' chest, rubbing soothing patterns along his torso. Slowly, Miles pushed his finger in further, feeling the tight muscles move to make room for him. He could imagine how it would feel, having Bass' tight hole squeeze him, and he bit his lip as the sensations coursed through his body. Miles pulled out slowly, savoring Bass' sound of protest. He coated both his first and middle fingers before easing both past the ring of tight muscle. There was more resistance this time as Miles slowly worked his fingers further into Bass' tight hole. He pushed to the second knuckle before slowly pulling his fingers out, then slowly pushed back in, setting a steady rhythm.
Miles movements were unhurried as pulled his fingers free and coated three fingers with oil. This time, he pushed all the way in before stilling, allowing Bass a chance to get used to the feel of all three fingers filling him. Miles began to move his fingers in shallow thrusts, just missing his prostate. Miles had never seen anything hotter in his life; Bass spread out beneath him, eyes blown with lust, hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles were white as Miles fucked him open with his fingers. Miles bent forward and bit one of Bass' nipples while his finger brushed against his prostate. Bass' entire body bowed at the sensation and Miles smiled around the nipple he still had in his mouth. He released it with a wet sound and pulled his fingers from Bass' body.
They'd long ago used their supply of condoms, which Miles didn't miss. He enjoyed the way Bass felt against his skin. Miles covered his dick with more of the oil and gave himself a few rough strokes before settling in front of Bass. He braced himself, hands on Bass' hips before he pushed the head of his dick in. He caught Bass' gaze and held it as he pushed himself in at an agonizingly slow pace. When he was fully seated, Miles paused, mesmerized by Bass' eyes. All the hardness from early was completely gone. He didn't deserve it. By rights, Bass should still be shooting fire at him, but he wasn't. Miles began to move then; he rocked his hips slowly watching the pleasure play across Bass' face. He pulled out and pulled Bass into his arms, kissing him deeply, hand griping the back of his neck before turning him to face the table.
Miles pushed Bass down on the table and reached down to stroke his dick a few times before he pushed his dick back into Bass' ass. His grip on Bass' hips was tight, his fingers leaving depressions in his flesh. Miles thrust fast and deep, using his grip to pull Bass closer, force himself deeper. Miles brought a hand up and splayed it in the middle of Bass' back as he continued to thrust into him. Bass continued to moan beneath him. Miles slid both hands up Bass' back until they gripped his shoulders, he squeezed his shoulders as he thrust deep, both of them moaning. Bass propped himself up on his forearm and twisted to look up at Miles. Miles bent forward and wrapped an arm around Bass' chest, holding him as they kissed. Miles' pace wavered as he wrapped both arms around Bass. He buried his head against Bass' neck, tasting the saltiness of his sweat against his tongue. He was close, but he was determined to bring Bass off first.
Miles kept one arm around Bass, but moved the other one to the table to brace himself as he snapped his hips faster. Miles kissed Bass' neck before nipping the same spot, each of his thrusts hitting Bass' prostate. Miles felt it when Bass neared his orgasm. Bass' hands wrapped around Miles' arm where it was braced against the desk, his head bent forward. Miles moved his hand from around Bass to his shoulder as he continued to pound into Bass. Bass came with a cry that should have brought the entire militia pouring into the room. Miles thrust a few more times before he came with his own cry, which he muffled against Bass' neck.
They stayed like that, panting, sweaty, sticky for a few moments. As messed up as it was, this was where Miles belonged. Slowly he pulled out, and used Bass' shirt to clean them both up. Gently, he pulled Bass into his arms and kissed him languidly.
Miles blinked awake the next morning, early morning light streaming in through the slit in the curtains. Bass was wrapped around him, head burrowed in his neck, a soft smile playing on his lips. Miles stared at the ceiling. He was still a coward. A better man would walk outside and order the men to shoot him. He was too selfish to die. There was still a pike out there with his name on it and one day soon his head would be on it.
- Current Mood: irritated
- Current Mood: creative
Word Count: >1,000
Pairings: Kelly Severide/Matthew Casey
Disclaimer: I own my story. The characters in the story belong to themselves.
Summary: After saving each other's lives and making up, Severide wakes up to the smell of Casey cooking breakfast.
Author's Note: This is for bones_2_be who requested fluff as a writing exercise because I'm not so much with the fluff writing. But, here it is.
The Way to a Man
The smell of pancakes woke him. He rolled from the bed and pulled his boxers on before padding barefoot down the stairs. Casey stood in front of the stove, humming a little tune to himself as he mixed more batter. From what Severide could see, his t-shirt from the night before was the only thing Casey had on. It was almost two sizes two big, and probably the hottest thing he’d ever seen Casey wear. He wandered a little farther into the room. A plate already piled high with pancakes sat on the counter and Severide smiled to himself and shook his head, silently wondering how many people were expected for breakfast. Casey was making an obscene amount of pancakes.
"I love how you look in my shirt," Severide murmured as he wrapped his arms around Casey.
"Morning to you, too, Kell."
"Mmmm." Severide planted kisses along Casey's neck.
"You’re distracting me."
"I know." Severide grinned as he ran his hands down Casey’s sides, bunching the fabric of the t-shirt in his fingers. Casey was sexy as hell in anything, but the surge of possessiveness he felt at seeing Casey in his unit t-shirt was almost overwhelming.
"They'll burn and I went through a lot of trouble making these."
Severide chuckled as he moved back to give Casey some room. He caught sight of Casey's socks and snorted a laugh. Casey always wore these special thermal socks under his boots. It had become a bit of a joke around the station and each Christmas Casey's stocking was filled with thermal socks, good to temperatures below forty degrees. Like the shirt, the socks were also Severide’s. Old wool socks he kept around for camping and such. They were too large and looked ridiculous on Casey's feet.
"Good to know some things don't change," Severide answered Casey's unasked question. "Your feet still get cold."
"You still radiate heat like a werewolf or something."
"Good thing you have the circulation of a 98 year old woman then, isn't it?"
"Get yourself a cup of coffee. Maybe it'll shut you up for thirty seconds."
He did as Casey told him. Once upon a time, he would have put cream in his coffee, maybe a touch of honey, but after a few years on the squad, he was just happy it was hot. He glanced between the batter Casey had begun spooning onto the griddle and the already substantial stack of pancakes. Casey spoke with food. It was his apology, his random act of kindness, his thank you. Severide never took it for granted, but he couldn’t help teasing.
"Just how many people are you having over for breakfast?"
"Shut up, I've seen you eat. I'm just hoping this will be enough."
Severide moved over to the counter and plucked a pancake from the stack. He rolled it and just as he was about to pop it in his mouth, Casey snatched it away from him.
"Get yourself a plate and there's syrup and whipped cream on the counter. Just because you act like a caveman doesn't mean you need to eat like one."
Grumbling to himself, he fixed a plate and took it to the table. He shook the whipped cream and smiled. After spraying a liberal amount on top of his pancakes, he smeared some on his finger and walked up behind Casey.
"You don't have any napkins," Severide began as he wiped the whipped cream along Casey's neck, "and since I'm such a caveman, I'll just have to make do with the surfaces I have."
"I do have napkins, you Neanderthal."
"Mmmhm. But, this is so much nicer. Don’t you think?"
Severide smiled against Casey's neck as he felt him shiver beneath his touch. He slowly licked the whipped cream from Casey's neck, savoring the sweetness of the cream combined with the saltiness of his skin. Needing the contact, Serveride pulled Casey against his chest and rubbed his growing erection against Casey's ass.
"You keep that up and we'll never make it to work."
"So we'll call in sick."
"Uh huh. You had pneumonia one year that was so severe we nearly had to hospitalize you, but you still came into work because you're a stubborn bastard."
"That was different. This is staying home for sex."
"With yourself? Because, me? I'm going to work."
"Come on, eat up. I didn't make all these pancakes for myself."
"Seems you do know the way to a man's heart."
Casey smiled. Severide loved it when he smiled.
"No, I know the way to your heart."
They finished their breakfast in companionable silence, mostly because Severide consumed his body weight in pancakes, much to Casey's amusement. The pancakes were delicious and melted against his tongue, but that wasn't the only reason he kept eating them. It was the only way he knew to accept Casey's apology without screwing everything up again. Words tended to do that. After quickly cleaning the kitchen, they grabbed their gear and drove together to the station.
“Do you think he’s waiting for us?” Casey asked as they pulled into the station.
"Why would he be?”
Severide winced as they got out of the car to see the Chief leaning casually against the doorframe. He raised an eyebrow as he looked between the two men. Casey shot Severide a slightly concerned glance.
“You two work out your issues?” the Chief asked.
Severide smiled at Casey. “Yeah, we’re good Chief.”
"Yeah. Real good.”
- Current Mood: artistic
Title: Once More for Regret
Word Count: 1,500
Warnings: Angst, Cheating, Spit Sex, ExhibitionismPairings: James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender
Disclaimer: I own my story. The characters in the story belong to themselves.
Summary: A secret rendezvous in Oxford.
Author's Note: This is for sjpheartshim who requested finger!porn...and also told me it was my turn to provide said finger!porn. So, here it is, finger!porn.
Once More for Regret
Usually, Michael's fingers would take their time tracing the lines of James' body, memorizing them. Secretly, or perhaps not considering how frequently Michael teased James until he trembled, Michael's fingers were James' favorite attribute, and there were a good number from which to choose. Now, his fingers were wrapped tightly around James' as Michael pulled them through Oxford's familiar streets. They'd not been back here since filming; James smiled fondly as memories flooded through him. He and Michael sneaking off between set changes to engage in a quick bit of whatever they felt they could get away with, mostly it was just fevered kissing which left them both painfully hard and unsatisfied, which led to intense sex once they wrapped for the day. But even then, Michael would take his time, working James over with sinful fingers.
Now, they raced through the streets, the street lamps illuminating patches of pavement, casting shadows on others. James felt anticipation tighten in his belly where it had been steadily growing since he'd received Michael's text earlier that day. On the right side of Broad Street, they passed the closed Museum of the History of Science, and Blackwell's on the right. Michael continued to tug James along, turning right onto Castle Street, placing the Bodleian to their right and Hertford College to their left. It'd been a natural place to film, the Bridge of Sighs replica a recognizable and striking landmark.
Michael tugged him towards a familiar door; James looked up at Michael who smirked down at him. Amazed, James vowed not to ask how Michael'd managed to get a key to the door, he figured he really didn't want to know. Instead, he simply smiled back as Michael pulled him through the door. It closed behind them softly, the stairwell dimly lit and empty. Michael pulled James closer to him, maneuvering them both into the corner before sandwiching James between his body and the wall. James gasped and his eyes flew wide open as he felt Michael's erection press against his thigh. Michael couldn't seriously be thinking…
Michael's lips crashing against his own derailed James' thought, clearly that's exactly what Michael was thinking. Against what was left of his better judgment, James returned the kiss, rubbing his own erection against Michael. Michael's hands trailed up James' body until they fisted in James' hair, tilting his head back slightly. James felt Michael's lips trail up his neck, James' hands fisted the hem of Michael's shirt.
"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, James," Michael whispered against his ear.
Michael nipped James' ear before sucking it into his mouth.
"I'm going to sear the imprint of my fingers inside you, mark you like no one else ever will; the mark a memory you'll carry with you," Michael paused and ground his hips down on James, "wherever you go."
James couldn't speak, couldn't respond, he nodded helplessly as his body trembled. He refused to think about the last part of Michael's statement, refused to acknowledge the truth, the pain in what that meant for both of them. He had the entire trip back to "wherever you go" to think about it.
Michael's hands were at his zipper, fingers carefully not touching him and James fought down the cry of frustration that lingered on the tip of his tongue. He knew Michael was going to drag this out as long as possible, might even make James beg before he let James find release…James smiled at the thought.
James fully erect dick fell into Michael's hand. With his thumb, Michael smeared the precome around the head. James' head fell back against the wall, his eyes fluttered closed; Michael's hands were made of magic, dark magic.
"Watch me, James."
His eyes snapped open and James watched Michael bring his thumb up to his mouth before sucking the it into the warmth of his mouth, making sucking noises as he tasted James' flavor.
"I love the way you taste, James. Always have."
James licked his lips and Michael's eyes darkened even more, which James didn't think was possible, but it made him shudder.
"Here," Michael said, offering James his index and middle fingers, "feel them in your mouth before you feel them in your ass."
Eagerly, James sucked the digits into his mouth. He traced the space between Michael's fingers with his tongue, feeling the smooth skin against the top of his tongue. He pressed Michael's fingers to the roof of his mouth, massaging the underside of Michael's fingers with his tongue. When he felt Michael begin to pull his fingers away, James closed his jaw a bit, his teeth scraping lightly against Michael's fingers as he pulled them slowly from the warmth of James' mouth.
Michael used his other hand to shove James' trousers down.
"Turn around, brace your arms on the wall."
James did as he was told, enjoying the way Michael's roughened voice fell against his skin. Then he felt one of Michael's fingers at his hole. James' head fell forward as he felt Michael slowly push a finger into him. It'd been a long time and he was tight, the press of Michael's finger burned, but it was a good, exquisite kind of burn. Michael's other hand was warm and possessive on his hip, grounding him. James felt the full length of Michael's finger in his ass, felt the way it stretched him. Slowly, Michael pulled his finger out before pushing back in, this time with two fingers. James hissed as the burn increased, and forced his body to relax.
He felt Michael's lips at the base of his spine pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin there as his fingers continued to move slowly in and out of James' body. Soon, the burn faded away as Michael's fingers curled and brushed against his prostate. It was a slow torture, Michael's pace frustratingly steady, unlike James' ragged breathing. He tried to push back against Michael's fingers, tried to increase the pace, but Michael brought his hand back to James' hip, holding him steady.
James bit back a curse when he heard Michael's laughter. Bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
After what felt like an eternity, Michael increased his speed, his fingers sliding quickly in and out of James' body. James felt precome leak steadily from his dick.
"Don't come yet, James. You're going to come in my mouth so you know I have a part of you with me wherever you go."
James moaned, loving to hear the filthy things Michael whispered. He'd always found Michael's filthy bedroom talk incredibly arousing, but being here in the middle of the stairwell in a populated Oxford College heightened everything he was feeling. Knowing anyone could wander by and see them, know exactly what they were doing…
"Turn around," Michael commanded as he pulled his fingers from James' body.
On unsteady legs, James turned, Michael's hands helping to steady him. Michael's mouth descended on James' once again. The kiss demanding, invading, claiming. James' hands fluttered uselessly somewhere around Michael's shoulders. Michael tore away from James' mouth before sliding smoothly to his knees at James' feet. James' breath caught in his throat as he saw the look on Michael's face as he looked up at James. He kept eye contact as he took James' dick in his mouth. Michael ran his tongue along the vein at the base of James' dick before he began to move up and down his dick. He was close and knowing Michael was on his knees for him wasn't helping. Michael hallowed his mouth and hummed; James lost it, his come shooting down Michael's throat. Michael slid his mouth of James' dick with a wet sound. James' head rested against the wall, his eyes closed as he fought to gain control of his breathing.
Michael's hands held James' hips as his lips ghosted over the sensitized skin above his dick. Surprised, James hissed when he felt Michael sucking the skin in the hallow of his hipbone into his mouth. He wanted to tell Michael to stop, not to leave a mark, but the words died on his lips. When Michael was done marking him, James felt him pull James' trousers back up before carefully putting them to rights.
"Come on," Michael whispered, taking James' hand in his, "No reason to tempt our luck anymore."
Later, when James sat on the back step of his flat, cigarette between his lips, he realized that had been goodbye. Michael's mark on his hip the final memory he'd have of the other man. It burned when he thought about it, when he made excuses to keep his trousers on around his wife, choosing to shower alone. There was an emotion he felt when he remembered their hurried encounter in Oxford, when he thought back to their stolen moments together during filming, an emotion he knew, but didn’t acknowledge, wanting to keep his relationship with Michael as pure as possible. When his wife's shadow fell over him, the unnamed emotion crept up on him, whispering in his ear…regret.
- Current Mood: awake
Title: You May Think This is a Rather Strange Decision
Word Count: 2,100
Warnings: Um, I actually don't thing there are any. Which makes me paranod that there are and I'm not seeing them.
Pairings: James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender
Disclaimer: I own my story. The characters in the story belong to themselves.
Summary: During a day trip to the seaside town of Whitby, Michael meets James, Kevin dresses like a pimp and January screams a lot.
Author's Note: It's been ages since I've posted something, and I must admit I've missed it. I had the idea for this story when I actually went to Whitby back in October. There is actually a place called the Dracula Experience and it is as cheesey as I describe it, it needed no hyperbole. Please realize this is a bit of self-indulgent fun and un-beta'd. Hope you all still enjoy it though.
You May Think This is a Rather Strange Decision
Michael wasn't entirely sure why he'd agreed to come on this mad Saturday trip to Whitby, but Kevin could be persuasive when he had a mind to be. Not that he minded going to a seaside town, quite the opposite, he loved them because such towns always had the best fish and chips. No, what Michael opposed were the costumes. No matter how many times Kevin assured him that everyone else would be dressed as daft as they were, he couldn't help shaking his head at himself. He used to not give into peer pressure, then he became an adult and that all changed. January, usually quite helpful in dissuading Kevin from his machinations was absolutely useless to him on this particular occasion.
"Come on, Michael. It's nearly Halloween. Just think of this as some extravagant fancy dress."
He'd said something about not being an eighteen year old fresher and pub crawls not starting at 10 in the morning, not that it did him any good. January rolled her eyes and Kevin told him not to be such a prat. all of this led to Michael standing outside his flat wearing plaid bondage pants, a black straight jacket- esque shirt, and calf high black boots with silver buckles up the side that weighed at least two stone more than he did.
"Say nothing," Michael said as he slid into Kevin's car.
Michael slouched down in the back, content to pout like a petulant child for the duration of the drive. He was pleased to see Kevin and January were dressed as promised. by the time they reached Whitby, Michael's mood had improved considerably. He always did like being by the sea. The further they walked into town, the more at ease Michael felt, even if he couldn't keep himself from gaping at the other gothically dressed people. Suddenly Kevin and his Victorian pimp, as Michael had dubbed his outfit, didn't seem quite as out of place as it should. They made their way along the river; it was much too cold and windy to laze about on the beach. The streets were crowded; people from all around in Whitby for the Gothic Weekend.
"We have to go, Kevin," January said, pointing to a shop on the right.
Michael moved over to get a better look. "the Dracula experience"...the tourist attraction promised modern technology and live actors to bring the Dracula story to life. Michael was doubtful because it didn't look like much, but he knew he'd end up going in if January convinced Kevin which she would. They went and queued behind a normally dressed family and the young girl kept pointing to them and then whispering to her indulgent older brother. They moved up to the till where an unimpressed youth waited to take their money.
"Three quid per adult."
"Three quid?" Michael repeated stupidly.
"No worries," Kevin told the kid as he shot Michael a reproachful glare.
"Right, so it's off to your right there just behind you. Don't touch the actors; they won't touch you and enjoy your Dracula experience."
January bounced as she headed off to the right and just behind and with a longsuffering sigh, and a playful shove from Kevin, Michael followed. He watched the way the overly cheerful January "oohed" and "awed" at the admittedly camp attractions. So far, the only spooky bit was Christopher Lee's booming voice reciting sections of Dracula through unseen speakers. At one point, a figure with indistinct figures, but wearing a nightshift, careened towards them at break neck speeds, causing January to shriek with fright.
"Honestly," Kevin muttered with a shake of his head.
"Pardon me for actually experiencing Dracula," she returned hotly.
Michael simply laughed as he followed them into the next part of the "experience", feeling more and more thankful that he'd not paid for his own ticket. Although, he figured watching January make a right idiot of herself might just make the journey worth it. As he entered the next room, he blinked his eyes, trying to speed their process of adjusting to the dim, red glow that sufficed as lighting in the room. He could see if he peered closely faux fur, the velour masquerading as velvet - all the pretties required by the brides of the immortal vampire lord. One feature struck him as odd and a bit out of place; about midway through the room, a railing enclosed an ominously lit staircase. Up until this point, the only staircases they'd seen were meant to move them through the display.
"January," Michael stage-whispered," come have a look at this."
Later, Michael would wish the resulting scene had been his plan. Just as January came to a stop in front of the hole, a young man in a black cape, covered in white face makeup, came dashing up the stairs screaming as though the devil himself was chasing him. The scream of terror January let loose as she threw herself into Michael's arms was nearly inhuman. After checking his grin and securing his hold on January, Michael glanced back at the hole in the floor, and was surprised to see the young man still standing there. His eyes were on January, but he must have felt Michael's gaze because the guiltily snapped up to meet Michael's. Embarrassed at being caught staring, Michael did as he always did and covered with charm by smiling and winking at the young man, unaccountably happy when he smiled in return.
Kevin, laughing gently, came and took January's arm. Michael stepped back, allowing Kevin, who gave him a conspiratorially knowing look, to move her through to the next room. Michael knew that when her wits returned to her, he'd be in for a proper tongue lashing and, with a private laugh, he decided it was well worth it.
Michael started at the unexpected voice and, fighting an embarrassed blush, turned to face the man who'd provided a brilliant bit of entertainment.
"Sorry," the man mumbled, head ducked down shyly.
"No worries, forgot I wasn't alone is all."
"She'll be alright, yeah?"
"After she's had a go at separating me from my head, I'm sure she'll be just fine."
"Sorry to have put you on the outs with your girlfriend."
"No worries, she'd've found something on her own, I'm sure. And, she's not my girlfriend. We grew up together."
The young man nodded, as though confirming something.
"Michael," he replied as he shook James' offered hand.
Michael felt the moment the handshake went on longer than a greeting between two strangers, but found he wasn't ready to release James' surprisingly soft hand. James appeared in no hurry to reclaim his hand from Michael's grip, and, feeling recklessly brave, Michael shifted his thumb down, caressing James' hand. Instead of snatching his hand back as Michael'd feared, James' eyes widened slightly and he took a small step closer.
Nearing footsteps broke the spell and with a muttered cruse, Michael moved back, his hand sliding slowly from James'.
"I'd best let you get on with it," Michael said, voice rough and pitched much lower than intended.
James simply nodded as Michael hurried from the room, afraid of what would happen if he lingered. Michael stumbled into the next room and forced himself to pause, to take a minute to gain control of his breathing and…other things. Mindlessly, Michael wandered through the rest of the display. The exit led to an alley on the far side of the building. He walked up to January and Kevin, wary eyes on January.
"Enjoy your laugh, did you, Michael?"
For a moment, Michael wasn't sure how to answer.
"Come on, then, we both know you did," Kevin interjected.
"You're buying my drinks tonight, Michael. And I'll not hear you complaining for the rest of the trip."
Finding the punishment tolerable, Michael nodded. He dug in his pockets and pulled out his cigarettes.
"We'll meet you at the pub, then," Kevin said.
Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Michael nodded absently as he continued to dig in his pockets in search of his lighter.
"Here you are," James said, lighter in his hand.
"Thanks," Michael mumbled as he lit it and felt the smoke burning through his lungs. The soothing feeling he'd expected lost with James so close to him once more.
"They abandon you for your crime?"
Michael smiled. "No. January doesn't tolerate the smoking. They've gone on to the pub. Seems I'll be buying all her drinks to night."
James laughed and Michael found he liked the sound a bit too much.
"Sounds like you got off lightly there," James observed, a teasing smile on his lips.
Michael smiled in return. "You've not seen January drink when she's of a mind to do so. My wallet'll be sorely empty by morning."
"You could invite me along and I'd be happy to keep your wallet from being woefully empty."
Michael blinked stupidly as he blurted, "You serious?"
James blushed crimson to the crown of his head and Michael felt the urge to adjust his trousers, baggy as they were. Later, and maybe only in his own mind, he'd have to thank January and Kevin for insisting he come to Whitby. He felt James shift away and kicked himself - his internal ponderings could wait.
"James," Michael rasped, embarrassed by how needy and rough he sounded, "have a drink with me."
It wasn't meant to be an order, but that's how it came out and Michael was well prepared to take it back, soften it a bit, when he saw the way James' eyes darkened. Michael took a hard pull from his cigarette, his cheeks hallowing obscenely, and watched James eyes track his movements. With a frustrated growl, Michael tossed the spent cigarette to the ground, took a moment to collect his thoughts, which proved impossible and ground the remains of his cigarette into pulp. Not that it helped. He could feel the slight tremors coursing through his body, feel his pulse race, feel the blood race through his veins. He couldn't remember the last time he'd reacted so immediately to someone.
Michael pushed himself away from the wall with an unintelligible noise before he rounded on James and backed him into the wall; he braced his hands on the wall on either side of James' head, their faces close enough for Michael to count James' eyelashes.
"Tell me no," Michael ground out, knowing it'd be James' only chance.
Instead of hearing a response, Michael felt James' hands settle on his hips before he was pulled flush against James' pliant body.
Michael's eyes widened, his world tilting a bit to the left.
He stared at James whose eyes were dark and after a few seconds of his continued idiotic staring raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. Unwilling to back down for so blatant an invitation, Michael bent his head down and captured James' lips in a bruising kiss. While his actions leading to his moment had been fumbling, slow and more than a bit awkward, his kiss was sure, confident and successful if the way James melted against him was an accurate scale. Michael moved one of his hands down and wrapped it around James' neck, forcing his head up and giving Michael a better angle. James' hands moved from where they'd been comforting resting on his hips up to Michael's shoulder blades where he felt James' hands fist into his shirt.
With an obscenely wet noise, Michael pulled his lips from James' and rested his forehead against James' as he waited for his breathing to even out enough to speak.
"We should go have that drink you accepted."
James licked his lips as he nodded his agreement.
"Good," Michael responded, doing everything in his power to ignore how enticing James' red lips looked.
He didn't move back from where he'd crowded James into the wall, nor did he move his hand from where it possessively encircled James' neck, his thumb moving back and forth absently.
"Good," James echoed, voice airy and far away. He made no effort to move either.
"Right," Michael began as he pulled back from James, his hand trailing from James' neck down his chest, to his arm, to his wrist before he twined their fingers, "we'd best be off. January might actually kill me if I spend the evening in the alley snogging you senseless instead of buying her drinks."
"Sod her drinks," James said as he tugged roughly on Michael's arm.
The tug had them falling back against the wall, Michael's leg sliding neatly between James'.
"Fuck," Michael moaned as his lips found James' once more.
- Current Mood: nostalgic
Title: Madness is More Interesting
Word Count: ~1,000
I feel like I'm missing one, let me know if you feel I should add something else
Pairings: James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender
Disclaimer: I own my story. The characters in the story belong to themselves.
Summary: At a party, Michael and James indulge a madness powerful enough to destroy them both.
Author's Note: I'm not sure why I'm writing at 2 am when I should be in bed.
It's because I'm moving across an ocean an my muse was like OMG now I'll give you ideas Honestly, I should be in bed. But, here I am writing fic, that is woefully unbeta'd and probably full of mistakes.
Madness is More Interesting
The door hadn't fully closed before they fused together, mouths hot and needy, feasting as though they'd missed too many meals. Hot hands fumbled in their search for flesh, fingers caught in the tangle of buttons and shirttails. Sounds of January's party, clearly audible moments ago, faded into nothing, replaced by their harsh pants and swallowed moans. Their kisses became less finessed, more teeth as they fought themselves, fought each other for a second of sanity. Hands moved lower, roughly groping, knuckles pressing against growing erections.
With a frustrated sound, Michael tore his mouth away, not daring to look up at James, not daring to look into his eyes. Instead, he looked down, focused on the uncooperative button. He felt James' hands on his arms, fingers pressing deeply into his biceps, scalding, marking, claiming. Slowly driving him further into madness.
"Michael - "
He cut off whatever James planned to say, not wanting to hear it, not now, not ever. He kissed and nipped and sucked until James sagged a bit in his arms, swept away on the same wave of passion that had already taken Michael. He finally managed to undo the button and hastily shoved the offending material down, hand palming James' dick roughly, thumb brushing over the tip, delighting in the way James hissed in a breath.
Michael wanted to take his time, to lay James on the bed and trace the lines of his body, watch him tremble with want before finally taking him, but he dared not indulge his desire. These stolen moments were not meant to last. He skirted the bed as he maneuvered them closer to the far side of the room, as far from the door as he could manage. Michael maintained a steady assault on James' senses, his lips alternately kissed and nipped along James' neck, his tongue laved the skin at James' clavicle. Briefly, Michael tore his lips away, and he sucked two of his fingers sloppily before resuming his campaign.
When Michael pressed James' back against the wall, he wanted to tell him how he'd missed him; he wanted to look into James' eyes and tell him how he'd been unable to see anyone else because he still loved him, but he held the words back. Their time together was tenuous, as stable as a dream and he'd not ruin it with words. Turning James to face the wall, Michael allowed his hands to linger on the planes of James' chest, to his back, hating the material between them, a physical reminder that this was more than either of them deserved, a forbidden encounter never meant to happen.
Pulling his zipper down sounded overly loud in the silence of the room, they both seemed to have stopped breathing, both waiting for the connection they'd been denied. There wasn't time, Michael cursed as he pushed one spit slicked finger inside, feeling James tense. He paused for as long as he dared, his lips pressed in a thin line as he struggled to maintain control. When James shifted his hips, Michael moved his finger in and out several times before removing it, delighting a bit when James whimpered.
His fingers fumbled as he felt James' body tremble in front of him. Michael worked the condom on and slathered it with lube. He didn't think about the fact that he had both in his pocket, just in case. It took a certain type of arrogance, he decided, to come prepared for something that neither had a right to, and that should never happen…not tonight, not ever. Now that they were both here, both damned to the same fate, Michael found himself uncaring. He'd deal with the consequences, and there would be many, after he'd taken his fill, given them both the damnation they deserved. For all that he couldn't look at James now, they'd shared looks all night, looks which would give anyone who cared enough to look a clear picture of exactly what they were doing behind closed doors.
As he lined himself up, Michael silently prayed the hasty prep was enough before he slowly pushed his hips forward. Michael's body trembled with the effort it took to keep from thrusting deeply into James, but even through the fog of the lunacy that seemed to have overtaken them both, he vowed to keep at least enough sanity to take it slowly. James helped him by pushing back and eventually Michael felt himself sink into James fully. He bowed over James' body, head resting against James' shoulder as he released a breath he'd not realized he was holding. Quickly, Michael brushed a kiss against James' cheek before retreating. He sped up his pace, knowing both of them wouldn’t last long, the anticipation, the madness would hurry them both to the end.
He placed his hands on James' hips, knowing the feel of James' skin against his own. The grip was more than a little proprietary, more than he had any right to be, but that just made his hands hold tighter, as though he could brand himself into James' flesh. The cant of his hips became more erratic as he continued to thrust, James pushing back against him as they both moved together, riding the blissful ignorance of pleasure until Michael came with a desperate cry. He pulled out slowly and spun James around so that he could fist James roughly and with a few swift jerks, James came all over Michael's hands.
As the haze lifted, neither looked at each other and James hastily tucked himself away and moved past Michael without a word. After disposing of the condom, Michael slumped into the chair. The weight of tonight's lunacy would crush him and wondered if it would have been better for them both if they'd ignored each other for the whole evening. Then he felt James' hand on his shoulder. It was fleeting, but real and enough for tonight.
- Current Mood: anxious
Title: Lessons His Teacher Gave
Word Count: ~3,300
Warnings: BDSM, Consentual Underage Sexual Relationship
Pairings: James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender
Disclaimer: I own my story. The characters in the story belong to themselves.
Summary: As a follow up to sjpheartshim's DD story found here and here, (which if you haven't already read, you should for the context of the story) Michael decides to follow through with his punishment and teach James a lesson they'll never forget.
Author's Note: This story completely got away from me. It was meant to just be a quick, oooh they had sex thing, but it just kept going. A picture of the handcuffs can be found here. This is unbeta'd, but I did go over it several times.
Lessons His Teacher Gave
It was only after James had left, lips obnoxiously red, expression wholly too self-satisfied that Michael realized exactly how reckless their behavior had been. It was still eleven days, six hours and thirteen minutes until James' eighteenth birthday. Of course, the fact that he knew such nuance details had scared him for the first couple of days, but soon, as with most things involving James, he simply shoved it aside and rode blissfully down the river denial.
Michael scrubbed his face before gathering up his papers and shoving them into his arms. He wouldn't be getting anymore grading done today. Or tonight. Maybe that's what caused James to break their pattern, the anticipation of tonight. Three or four nights a week they would meet up at different locations where they were sure to be unseen by someone they knew. It wasn't always about sex, although it usually ended up there. Some nights, they simply laid together in bed watching some film on TV or James would do his homework while Michael graded papers. The important part for both of them was being together, without having to put on a pretense.
Today he stopped by his flat first; there were a few necessary items he'd need for tonight's rendezvous. He smiled to himself as he packed the duffle, fingers lingering lovingly on select items, imagining how they'd feel against James' skin. The thoughts forced him to adjust himself, a wry smile on his lips. With everything packed, he tossed the duffle in the backseat of his car and set out for the hotel. As he drove, he began to map out the night's activities. Tonight, nothing would be left to chance; everything would be tailored to ensure James never forgot about his little indiscretion. One which Michael couldn't allow himself to over think, because if he did, he'd call off their whole relationship; as much as he enjoyed James' company, a bit more than he expected and a lot more than he should, he liked his job and his freedom, too.
Two hours later, he was ready. He glanced at the clock; James had exactly five minutes to walk through that door, or he'd be late. James was never late. Michael resisted the urge to pace, his pent up energy, needed an outlet. With two minutes to spare, Michael heard the electric lock engage a second before James walked into the room.
Michael took a moment to appreciate the way James' face changed. The smug look transformed into an awed submission so fast Michael nearly missed it. He tightened one hand, enjoying the sound of the leather gloves creaking; he enjoyed watching James lick his lips more. He moved towards James, who backed himself against the door, eyes wide, mouth parted. Michael reached up and ran the back of his fingers gently down the side of James' face. James closed his eyes and leaned into the caress.
"Tell me your safeword."
James blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream and Michael nearly groaned aloud, it was only one touch.
Michael smiled. It was how they always entered a scene; it gave James a chance to beg out before things even started. A simple, I have no safe word, and it would be over without a second thought. So far, James had only opted out once, and Michael still felt a surge of anger when he thought about what James had told him that night, not anger towards James, but at the people closest to him.
He forced his thoughts back to the present. "Good. Turn around."
James swallowed and did as he was told. Michael moved in close, almost touching and watched James quiver with anticipation of the first touch. Michael placed his hands on James' hips and brought James' shirt up and over his head before trailing his fingers down James' spine, enjoying the sight of James' back arching.
"I hope you enjoyed your stunt today, James," Michael whispered into James' ear. "I hope it was worth it."
Michael ran his glove-clad hands up James arms, forcing them above his head in the process. He linked their fingers, loving the visual contrast of the black gloves against James' pale skin. Fully covering James' body with his own, Michael moved against James once before latching his teeth onto the delicate skin at James' collarbone. He heard James' breath hitch in a hiss and covered the abused spot with his lips, sucking the skin into his mouth. Beneath him James trembled. Michael slid his hands down James' body before stepping away. He stood and silently watched James; he admired the sight of James' hands above his head, elongating the line of his back, saw how it arched gracefully into his pert, rounded ass.
"Was it worth it, James?" Michael asked.
Michael grinned wolfishly. He enjoyed hearing James' voice, hearing the way it would change as the scene progressed. Titles were simple; in a scene, he was sir, in class he was Mr. Fassbender, and any other time he was Michael.
"I'm glad to hear that, James. Place your hands behind your back."
James lowered his hands and crossed them at the wrists. Michael moved up behind him, leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the base of James' neck, distracting him from the handcuffs in his hands. Michael latched the cuffs to James' right wrist; he heard James' breath catch as the metal enclosed his wrist tightly, before doing the same to the left.
Michael tugged the chain links connecting the cuffs, watching the tension race through James' shoulders, down through his arms before leading James to the bed.
"Bend over and spread your legs."
James did as he was told, movements and balance a bit off due to the handcuffs; Michael licked his lips. Michael kneeled behind James, reached around and undid James' trousers; he pulled them down just enough to expose James' ass. He bent further over James and nipped the skin just above the swell of James' ass before ghosting over the mark with a gloved fingertip. Michael watched the shiver race up James' spine. Michael smiled to himself as he brought his hands up to palm James' ass. Tenderly, he kneaded the muscle, loving the fullness of James' ass, wishing to touch it with his own hand, skin to skin, but knowing this would be better for James, his own desires could wait.
Hands lingering, Michael stood to his feet and moved to James' right side. The bed frame was tall enough that bent over the bed, James' feet barely laid flat on the carpet. Michael appreciated how much younger it made James look. He smoothed his hand across James ass before bringing his hand up then down sharply on the fleshy part of James' ass, savoring the sound of the leather as it snapped against James' skin. Michael rubbed the abused skin gently before repeating the action, this time causing James to cry out, back bowing gracefully, head thrown back, lips parted, eyes closed. Michael brought his hand down again, and again, and again. Each time James' back arched and he made the most enticing sounds in the back of his throat before sagging back against the mattress.
Michael took a moment to examine the results of his efforts; James' ass cheeks were stained a deep rose color and he kept trying to push his ass back, as though seeking out another. James' breathing was shallow and fast.
"How does that feel, James?" Michael asked, mouth close to James' ear.
"Good, sir, so good."
Michael moved back a bit, hand humming and warm from James' skin.
James stood, legs a bit shaky. Michael placed one hand on James' upper arm to steady him while he used the other to unlock one side of the handcuffs. Briefly, his thumb traced the red marks on his wrists, to which James made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat. Michael helped him step out of his trousers fully.
"Get up on the bed, James, near the head board."
James cast a look over his shoulder before climbing onto the bed. Michael felt the look race through him like fire. The need, the want, the desperation, all of it rolled up in one moment, one look...something he'd never forget. I've got you, baby. I've got you. Michael rooted in the duffle until he found the bottle of lube. He gave a sad look to his gloves, glad he'd purchased several pairs, before moving to the head of the bed. He locked the free end of the cuffs to the headboard and handed the bottle of lube to a confused James.
"I want you to open yourself up for me. Open yourself up good because when you're ready I'm going to use these gloves," Michael caressed the side of James' face again, "to fuck you until you come from the feel of my fingers buried deep inside you. That, and nothing else."
Michael watched the muscles in James' throat work as he swallowed, eyes suddenly wide - with excitement.
"Can you do that for me, James?"
James nodded. "Ye-s, yes, sir."
"That's my boy."
Michael moved to the foot of the bed and sat in a chair he'd moved there earlier, wanting the perfect view. He watched James fumble a bit with the lube, but soon he had generously coated his fingers. When James caught sight of Michael watching him, he froze, eyes wide mouth forming a silent "o". Michael smiled gently, the one he reserved just for James.
"It's okay, baby. I want to see you do this, see how amazing you'll look as you use your fingers to open yourself up for me. The way your face will flush, the noises you'll make. Me sitting here knowing I can't touch you until you tell me I can, sitting here with my want, with my desire, waiting to touch you."
Michael held James' gaze, watched as he gained control of himself and then wondered how he'd manage to sit here without touching James. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire as he watched James scoot up onto his knees before reaching back, struggling to find a workable angle to work his index finger into his hole. Slowly, James worked his index finger in to the first knuckle. After a few tentative thrusts, James found his rhythm; his finger rocking in and out, soon his whole body moved with the motion. Michael heard the clang of the handcuffs against the headboard and pressed the heel of his hand against his crotch. Tonight was about James.
When James inserted a second finger, Michael bit the inside of his mouth as his eyes closed which didn't help because his brain supplied images of James on his knees, under his desk, red lips around his swollen dick - Michael opened his eyes. James seemed lost in the sensation, his body moving in time with his fingers as they worked in an out of his hole, lube dripping down his hand, sweat beading on his back.
After what felt like days to Michael, James pulled his fingers out and looked over his shoulder, eyes locking with Michael.
"I'm ready, sir."
Michael nodded, unable to speak. James' arousal roughened voice grated over his senses like sandpaper. With measured strides, Michael walked to the head of the bed and unhooked the handcuff from the bed frame.
"Give me your hand."
When James offered his hand, Michael moved the chain of the handcuffs around the headboard post before securing James' other wrist, effectively chaining James to the bed. With James on his knees, Michael surveyed the remains of his earlier efforts, James' ass still a pleasing pink color. He reached out and rubbed each cheek, hearing James' mewl.
"Have I told you how amazing you look like this? On your knees, hole open, ready for me? You're stunning."
Michael picked up the tube of lube from where James had left it, coated his finger with a generous amount and, with that, Michael pushed his index finger in, feeling the leather slide smoothly. James had prepared himself well. He felt James stop breathing and stilled his finger. He brought his other hand up to the base of James' back.
"Breathe, James. I need you to breathe for me."
With a stuttering effort, James began to breathe, shallowly at first, but soon it evened out enough for Michael to feel confident enough to continue.
"That's my good boy, James. Keep breathing. Focus on the feel of my finger inside you and breathe with the movement."
Michael pushed his finger the rest of the way in, feeling James breathe with the movement. Slowly, he pulled out, nearly all the way, before pushing back in; Michael repeated this several times, establishing a steady rhythm designed to even out James' breathing. Soon though, it wasn't enough for James who began to push back on Michael's hand, speeding up the pace, increasing the friction.
"What do you want, James?"
Michael slowly inserted a second finger, feeling the way it stretched James, hearing the leather rub against itself as he worked both fingers in and out of James. He allowed James to set the pace, watched his fingers disappear inside James. James bowed his back as he pushed back against Michael's fingers; he'd lost all sense of rhythm as he chased his release. Michael curled his fingers and James' entire body shuddered as Michael hit James' prostate. Soon James rocked against Michael's hand with abandon, the cuffs rattled nosily as James moved, heedless of everything but his elusive release.
"Sir, please, sir - I - "
Michael coated another finger in lube and slowly inserted it, adding it to the other two.
"I told you James, if you want to come, you'll do so from the feel of my fingers inside you and nothing more."
James cried out his frustration. Michael repositioned his fingers and began to thrust them in tandem with James' movements. Each time he pushed in, Michael would brush against James' prostate.
"Come for me, baby."
With a few more hard thrusts, Michael felt James' body tighten seconds before, with a cry, James shot his load, staining the hotel pillow. Gently, Michael slid his fingers from James, both of them feeling the loss of the connection. He pressed a gentle kiss to the base of James' spine.
"You did so well tonight, baby."
Michael reached up and removed the handcuffs, feeling the way James trembled in the aftershock of his orgasm. With his teeth, Michael loosened the straps on the leather gloves and tore them from his hands.
"Ssshhh, I've got you," Michael whispered in James' ear, holding him close, running a soothing hand up and down James' arm. When the worst of James' trembling subsided, Michael gently slid from the bed.
"I'll be right back. I've gotta get some stuff to clean you up, okay?"
James nodded slowly.
Michael frowned and didn't move.
"I'll be o-okay."
Quickly, Michael went into the bathroom and soaked a washcloth in warm water, wrung it out, and grabbed the first aid kit on from his duffle on his way back to the bed. He threw the soiled pillow off the bed before settling down, watching James' features carefully as he came back to himself. Michael used the warm washcloth to clean James after which he reached down and retrieved James' boxers. With a soft smile, James pulled them on before settling between Michael's spread legs.
Michael pulled James right arm up so that he could examine the abrasions left by the handcuffs. He'd brought a special pair, wider cuffs, two-toned silver and gold. They looked fantastic against James' skin.
"This will sting a bit, but I have to clean it," Michael told James, voice soft.
James simply snuggled further into Michael. Gently, he swabbed the lightly bleeding cuts with an alcohol swab. Already the skin around the shallow cuts was beginning to purple; it would spread a bit more before it began to heal. Michael brought James wrist up to his mouth, placing a delicate kiss to his inner wrist.
"So beautiful," Michael's voice rumbled through his chest.
He dabbed the abrasions with a special ointment he kept in a jar before wrapping them in gauze. By morning, he'd be able to take the gauze off, the majority of the cut healed. The bruising would take a bit longer, but Michael knew James liked those better, liked it when the physical representation of their time together lasted. Michael helped James to sit up a bit so he could remove his jeans and shirt. James looked at him a bit curiously, eyes still heavy lidded. Normally, they had a bit of a cuddle before one of them left. After a scene, Michael was usually the one to leave, James needing the rest.
He knew it was risky, to break their pattern, but he couldn't bring himself to leave James; not tonight, not after the way James had come apart in his arms. When Michael settled himself under the covers, James' face fell as he turned to crawl from the bed.
"James," Michael called softly, "come here, love."
Michael held the sheet up for James, who after a second of deliberation, slid under the covers and curled up against Michael.
"How are you?"
James moaned lightly and curled his hand around Michael's side. Michael placed a kiss on the top of James' head before tilting his head up so he could see James' eyes.
"I need words, James. How are you?"
"I'm good, Michael. I'm very good."
Michael cupped James' cheek before kissing him lightly. James moved impossibly closer and Michael's hand trailed down his neck around the curve of his shoulder before resting possessively on James' hip. Languidly, Michael pulled his lips away.
"Sleep, love. I'll make you breakfast in the morning."
James smiled broadly. "M'kay."
Michael reached around and turned out the light before settling James against him. As he drifted to sleep, he found he truly enjoyed the feel of James pressed up to him and cursed the remaining eleven days, six hours and thirteen minutes until James' eighteenth birthday.
- Current Mood: pensive
Title: Cailean Drabbles
Word Count: ~500
Pairings: James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender
Disclaimer: I own my story. The characters in the story belong to themselves.
Summary: Randomly saw a pair of children's slippers at the store the other day and well, this is the result. This is unbetaed because they are super short and I just felt like writing something quick and fun. Thanks to sjpheartshim for helping me find a name for their kiddo.Author's Note: The slippers looked like this. The Halloween costume looked like this.
"You can't be serious, James," Michael said.
They were standing in front of a children's shoe store, a bin at the front full of animal slippers.
James reached into the bin and pulled out a pair of shark slippers. He slid his hands into them before turning to face Michael, his best wide-eyed expression on his face.
"No, they're ridiculous."
James rolled his eyes. "They're children's slippers. I think ridiculous is appropriate."
Michael looked sadly at the slippers, failing to find the amusement James found in the monstrosities. Unfortunately, he did find James' happiness compelling; compelling enough to consider indulging him in this. After all, they were only slippers. Slippers in designed to look like a shark. A shark with red eyes that lit up whenever the slippers moved. Michael figured describing them as “ridiculous” was being generous. Their son, Cailean, was young enough to grow out of them soon enough, so they'd not plague him for long.
"How likely am I to talk you out of purchasing them?"
The grin that split James' face decided it for Michael. He pulled James into his arms and kissed the top of his head.
"If it makes you that happy then," Michael began, "But we'll not be buying the tike a new pair each time he grows out of them, yeah?"
"Of course, darling," James answered.
When James kissed his cheek before bouncing into the store, Michael knew he'd be back here buying new shark slippers each time Cailean grew out of the previous pair.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Did you boys have a good time, then?” James asked as he walked into the house, arms filled with more candy than necessary.
“We’re in the bedroom,” Michael called, voice echoing through the house.
James placed the bags on the counter, vowing to make Michael deal with the candy later. He climbed the stairs and followed the sounds of Michael and Cailean laughing.
“No,” James said from the doorway, arms crossed.
Michael simply smiled and fitted the tiny black nose to Cailean’s face.
“There you are, button, go show your da how cute you look in your costume,” Michael said as he ushered Cailean from the bed.
“We cannot let him go outside dressed like this, Michael,” James protested.
James watched Michael signal their son and soon Cailean was turning in front of him, showing him the full outfit, a grin just like his father’s taking up most of his face. Clearly, he’d left the boy alone with Michael for too long.
“It has a tail, James. And the giant ears, he really likes the giant ears.”
“I’m sure you did nothing to encourage him?”
“I did nothing of the sort.”
James looked between Michael and their son. Somehow he knew this was Michael’s way of getting even for the slippers, which they’d bought in every size the company produced, and grudgingly agreed it was fair. Although, he thought it might be poor parenting to perpetuate a game of one-upmanship using their son as a pawn. Then he saw the way Michael fussed over the costume, adjusting the way it sat, moving the nose to make it more comfortable, watched how he painstakingly drew whiskers (it was a very good thing they had a makeup artist when they were on set) and realized he’d been soundly defeated by the two most important men in his life.
“Right then, next year you’re responsible for the candy,” James declared.
- Current Mood: thoughtful
Title: En Pointe
Word Count: ~3,000
Warnings: bottom!Michael (maybe more enticement than warning)
Pairings: James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender
Disclaimer: I own my story. The characters in the story belong to themselves.
Prompt #31: so i just rewatched Black Swan and thought a ballet au would be nice C: not necessarily Black Swan-ish, just anything ballet related.
"Michael, you shouldn't have closed the door," James chastised.
He kept himself behind his desk; it was a large, mahogany monstrosity that didn't suit him or the room, but he'd inherited it and right now liked the physical barrier between himself and Michael.
"What's the matter, James? Don't you trust yourself to be alone with me?" Michael's voice was pitched low, heavy with want.
"As a matter of fact, I don't."
Michael moved until his was directly in front of the obscene desk. He braced his hands on the front edge, the cords of muscle in his arms accentuated by the pose as he leaned forward, nearly in James' personal space.
"Michael," James began, eyes wide, "Don't."
With a sigh, Michael pushed away from the desk. "James, honestly, this is silly. You like me, I like you. We're both unattached gay men. I fail to see the problem."
"The problem, Michael - "
Michael grinned, loving the way James became imperious when he thought he was correct about something.
"is that I now own this ballet studio."
"I was aware, yes. And, if you'd let me, I'd love to congratulate you properly."
"I cannot have sex with one my employees. It's a conflict of interest. Especially after this morning's meeting."
"The one where you threatened to fire anyone not producing revenue for the studio? I was there for that announcement, too."
"This isn't a joke, Michael," James growled.
"I'm well aware of that, James. I'm also not afraid of losing my job."
"Sleeping with me won't save your job."
Michael smirked. "I don't need to sleep with you to keep my job, James. I'm head instructor here for a reason, and not just because of how great my ass looks in leggings."
"Would you like to spank me?" Michael asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
"Michael, do try to take this seriously."
"I always take spankings seriously."
"You know very well that's not what I'm talking about here."
"I know. I also know that you're over thinking this, James. You want me."
James shoved his hands into his pockets. "To put a finer point on it, Michael, I've already had you."
Michael smiled slowly, sensuously. "I'm aware, if you'll recall, I was there. The sex was quite amazing, actually."
"Stroking my ego won't help you."
Michael leaned further across the desk. "Shall I stroke something else, then?"
"You should leave, Michael," James said without looking at him.
Michael felt his heart clench. "James - "
"You have a class in five minutes," James interrupted.
Michael smirked. "Saved by the bell?"
James met his gaze squarely and Michael swallowed, and willed his hard on away. He wouldn't be able to explain a boner to a room full of men in tights without it becoming horribly awkward. With one last heated glance at James, Michael smiled and left the office. He went through the routine of the lesson like a robot, which wasn't the best for a ballet instructor, but one poor lesson wouldn't be the end of his career, even when James might.
He waved a half-hearted good-bye to the last student, finally able to breathe now that he was alone in the studio. Facing himself in the mirror, Michael began to work through one of his standard warm-up routines, knowing he needed it since he'd done little other than standing during the class. His body moved fluidly through the movement, and he felt the extension from the point of his toe up through his leg where it settled in his hips. Warm-up completed, he moved over to the stereo, changed out the class soundtrack and replaced it with a compilation he'd developed.
As the first strains of music floated through the room, Michael closed his eyes, and forced a deep breath, in from the bottom of his toes, out through the top of his head. About four measures into the music, he began to move in time with the mellow beat, limbs fully extended with each down beat. Occasionally, he would open his eyes, and catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror to verify that he'd properly executed each movement.
When James came into the studio, Michael felt it; James' eyes blazing a trail down his body, setting his skin on fire, making every last inch of him hyper aware of James' presence. He continued through his routine, making minute differences here and there to accentuate certain parts of his anatomy. After all, James wouldn't have come in if he wasn't in search of something; Michael simply hoped it was him. Michael made a grand show of the final movement of the routine, focusing on extending his arms as far above his head as possible, making the lines of his back more prominent before slowly folding himself nearly in half, hands brushing the ground, head down, ass sticking out a bit more than necessary for the movement.
"I shouldn't be in here," James whispered.
Head still down, Michael allowed a slow smile to spread across his face. James' hands settled warm and possessive on his hips, fingers spread to hold as much of him as possible, which he loved. Slowly, Michael straightened his spine, making sure he pressed his ass back against James as much as possible. He heard James groan as his ass slid up, accentuating their height difference.
"I really shouldn't be here," James repeated as he molded himself to Michael's back.
Michael turned to face him, James' hands maintaining contact the whole time.
"Then why are you here, James?"
He didn't mean for it be a challenge, not really, but he couldn't handle the hot then cold mood swings that seemed to strike James on a whim. Sure, it had started as a bit of fun, a chance to unwind after a performance. At some point between being fucked into the mattress, then later fucked in the shower, Michael'd decided he wouldn't mind seeing James again, perhaps on a more regular basis. It was more than the sex, amazing mind-blowing sex, sure, but there was something about James that made Michael feel like clinging and never letting go. It was only later, after, that Michael had discovered James was the man buying the studio.
"I can't seem to make myself stay away," James admitted.
James' fingers were rubbing circles against Michael's hips, pleasantly distracting, and Michael doubted James even knew he was doing it.
"You seemed fairly determined in your office earlier, James," Michael reminded him pointedly.
"I still think this is a bad idea."
Michael dipped his head and captured James' lips in a gentle, teasing kiss. He felt James' hands clench on his hips, his dick twitch in his tights. James angled his mouth, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding around to palm Michael's ass. Michael moaned deep in his throat, eyes closed in bliss, feeling once more like things were as they should be, his body slotted perfectly with James'.
Michael whimpered when James tore his mouth away.
"A very bad idea," James breathed, his chest heaved, his eyes soft, hooded.
Michael nodded absently, body still hot and heavy with need. He consoled himself with the knowledge that James hadn't moved away. He bowed his head, resting it against James' shoulder; he turned his face towards James' neck, inhaling James' scent, feeling it course through his body before settling in his heart, as though it had always belonged there. Michael pressed his lips to James' neck, and brought his hands up to wrap around James' back, holding him close, still afraid he'd disappear if he let go.
Michael heard the laugh in James' voice and finally allowed himself to relax into James' embrace; he knew James wasn't going anywhere, at least not tonight. James' hands gripped his hips tightly before pushing back, away from Michael. For a moment, Michael wanted to reach out, to pull James back to him, but he didn't; he wouldn't.
"We can't do this, Michael."
"You're wrong. You want this as much as I do, James. Stop fighting it."
"This never should have started."
Michael rolled his eyes and moved away from James. He did his best to ignore the way James' eyes followed him as he moved around the studio, gathering random items he didn't really need. He reached for a towel and scrubbed it over his hair, still not looking at James. Unable to look at James.
"Michael - "
"Don't, James. Just leave. I need to finish up here."
He wanted to look, wanted to look back and find James looking back at him, to see his own longing reflected in James' eyes, but he knew better, or maybe he was just stubborn, maybe both. Either way, he didn't look back and he regretted it the moment he heard the door shut softly, the sound overly loud in the silence of the studio.
Michael considered calling in the next day, but shoved the thought away as quickly as he'd had it. He needed to be at the studio, preparing his students for the upcoming gala night, which was important for everyone, his personal entanglements with a certain studio owner notwithstanding. As with any owner, he knew James intended to dismiss any instructor who failed to meet the financial requirements of the studio and he didn't intend to lose his job. He didn't see much of James in the days leading up to the gala, both of them busy with preparations; however, he did feel James' eyes on him when he wasn't looking, or when he was alone in the studio after hours, fine tuning a routine. Michael never looked to verify James watched him because he didn't need to; he knew it was James.
After the gala performance, the handshakes, the mindless pleasantries designed to make the wealthy offer significant donations to the arts, Michael felt drained, and a bit used. He knew how it all worked of course, he'd been in the business long enough to know it wasn't enough simply to have faith in the purity of art. That knowledge did little to help him in the aftermath of such performances though. Especially when he remembered the last time, and how he'd been taken care of after, taken care of by James. He'd looked smashing tonight, the bastard, all dressed up in a tuxedo tailored to accentuate some of James' more attractive assets. A wry smile touched Michael's lips as he took a long pull from his cigarette, a nasty habit, bad for his profession, but one of the few vices he had left, maybe someone bought the studio out from under James. Perhaps tomorrow he'd show up and they'd be under new management. What excuses would James create to keep them apart then?
Michael stubbed out his cigarette, the lingering smoke filling his nostrils. That's not really what he wanted, not for James and certainly not for himself. It might be good for him to realize James just might not be all that interested in him. Perhaps that's what James had been trying to say from the beginning, but part of Michael just didn't buy it, wouldn't buy it. There had to be something between him, certainly he wasn't the only one who felt it. But, considering he was alone, his couch woefully empty, it might be just him. At least his hand still worked. With a sigh, Michael stretched across the couch to turn off the light. That's when he heard the incessant knocking. He glanced at his watch; it was just past one in the morning. His first inclination was to ignore it and go to bed, but the knocking just became louder and more insistent as if the person on the other side of the door knew his intentions. With a groan, he stood from the bed and opened the front door.
"James, what are you - "
"Shut up, Michael," James ordered.
Even if Michael had been planning on saying something more, his mouth was otherwise occupied. James lips were hard, insistent against his. As were his hands, his hands that gripped Michael's upper arms and the connection felt as if they'd somehow seared together, flesh against flesh. James walked them backwards a bit, putting them in the room enough for James to kick the door shut. His hands were like coals everywhere they touched and Michael loved the sensation.
"Do you always sit around in the dark half-naked?"
It took him a moment to process the question, he was still reeling from having James' hands on him. Of course he was half naked, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, he'd been intending to go to bed, but there was no reason for James to know that.
Michael smirked, "Only when I'm expecting company." As lies went, it wasn't horrible.
"You were expecting me?"
Michael paused, wanting a straight answer almost as much as he didn't.
"Maybe I was hoping you'd finally show up, but James why - "
"I thought I'd told you to shut up."
Michael's protest was swallowed by James' mouth once more. James continued to move them into the room until Michael felt his ass connect with the edge of his table. How had James managed to get them all the way into the kitchen? Before he could verbalize his question, James began to tug on his sweatpants, pulling them over his growing erection, down his thighs, down his calves until he yanked them over his feet and flung the offending material across the room. James lips moved from his lips, over his collar bone, where his tongue dipped into the hollow between his neck and the bone to taste the skin there and it sent a shiver up Michael's spine. James continued to work his way down Michael's body, teeth scraping lightly over a nipple, tongue darting into his belly button before he took Michael's cock into his mouth in one smooth movement.
Michael's eye shot open and he looked down to see James on his knees, James' mouth around his dick. Part of him refused to believe he finally had what he'd been craving for so long, those months without this. The other part of him greedily latched on to the moment, savoring the sight of James on his knees for him, pleasuring him. He was still dressed up in all his finery, the bowtie hanging loosely around his neck, the top button of the pleated white shirt undone. Michael curled his fingers in James' hair and began to thrust his hips, fucking into James' open, pliant mouth. He wanted to say something, to test whatever it was between them now, but the words remained lodged in his throat.
When James pushed the tip of his finger inside, Michael threw his head back, thrusting his hips in the process. He felt James' slowly slide off his dick, his finger still probing into his hole. Michael wanted to reach down and hold James' head, feel his hair again, but he was afraid of letting go of his death grip on the edge of the table. Afraid that if he let go, he'd never return to himself, to reality, to sanity. James' finger continued to push in and out of Michael, slowly opening him up, stoking the embers of desire burning in the pit of his stomach.
Distantly he heard the pop of a tube of lube opening, but James' finger wasn't inside of him any longer and he desperately wanted the feeling back, he looked down at James, noticed the way his pupils were dilated with desire, his breathing ragged, uneven. James ran his hands up Michael's torso, over his shoulders, down his arms, linked their fingers. Michael felt something inside him loosen as James tugged him forward, then helped him turn around. James bent Michael over the table, his lips warm against Michael's shoulder blades, the texture of the tux a tantalizing sensation compared to the silkiness of James' lips.
James' hand settled possessively on Michael's hip and then Michael felt the burning stretch as James entered him. He gripped the edge of the table as James slowly pushed in, James' hand moved up to rest on the small of his back, a soothing, gentle gesture. It'd been a while for Michael, and he knew James could tell. Did he know? Did James know he was the last Michael had been with? He felt James bend forward, his lips ghosting across his skin.
"Shhh, I've got you," James whispered.
Michael believed him. As James began to rock his hips, Michael allowed himself to ride the sensation. This time it wasn't a trick. This wasn't James running away, not now. Not tonight. Michael wouldn't last long; he'd wanted James too much for too long for him to have any hope of making the moment last. James must have sensed his urgency because the cant of his hips changed, the pace increased and James' grip on his hips was strong, possessive, but not bruising, not punishing, it was as thought James held on to Michael to keep himself from floating away just as Michael held the table. The knowledge of being wanted, of being possessed, desired by the man he'd thought abandonded him sent him over the edge. With a strangled cry of want, of hope, of desire, Michael came without anyone touching his dick. James followed soon after.
Light filtered through the sheer curtains in his bedroom, waking Michael. He blinked slowly, disorientated. Slowly, through the fog of sleep, things began to make sense again. To clear. He remembered last night. Remembered James coming to the house. Remembered the kitchen. Then there were the things he didn't remember. Like getting into his bed. Then he felt the warm body behind him, the arm around his torso. He stayed. Michael turned around, wanting to see it with his own eyes. James lay in his bed, naked, another thing Michael didn't remember, but wished he did.
James blinked awake, a soft smile on his face.
"I thought you'd be gone," Michael whispered, afraid it was all a dream.
James kissed Michael's forehead. "So did I."
Michael sighed and tucked James against his body. It wasn't a dream and as he drifted back to sleep, he vowed to never let him go.
- Current Mood: loved