[fic] In the Dark
So it appears I haven't posted hockey fic since...1 June, 2008. *wince* Sorry. I blame my senior year.
I have been working on this peace since early October 2008. It has been slow going, and I cannot thank skye_chan14 nearly enough for all the hand-holding and encouragement, and for casting a weathered eye over it this evening.
Without further ado, let me present, In the Dark.
Title: In the Dark
Author: creepy_crawly
Rating: Um. NC-17. Definitely.
Warnings: Hockey. Slash. BDSM.
Pairing/Those Involved: Derick Brassard/Nikita Filatov
Disclaimer: I own them. No, seriously. They live in my basement with Johnny Depp and my pet dragon.
Summary: Nikita cannot hide his needs in the dark.
“Mmm, Niki, love,” Derick moaned, rolling onto his side, not even bothering to open his eyes. He patted the empty stretch of mattress half-heartedly. “Love, please, go back to sleep.”
Seated on the edge of the mattress, leaning with his elbows on his knees, Nikita shook his head. “I…I can’t, Der,” he muttered. “I just…”
After a moment’s pause, Derick cracked open an eye and turned to look at his lover. “Niki? Are you okay?” he asked, confused and worried. Nikita was not acting like his usual, calm self.
Not replying, the Russian suddenly rose to his feet and began to pace around the room, walking in and out of patches of moonlight. His feet whispered over the carpet as he paced, his face pensive, his shoulders tense. He looked like a tiger, caged, penned in, with all that fierce energy ready to explode and with nowhere to go.
As he paced, he fingered his wrists, unconsciously. He craned his neck from side to side, not saying anything, just twisting this way and that. Derick watched him walk, confusion and tiredness leaving him clueless as to his lover’s behavior. “Love?” he asked again. “Are you alright?”
This time, Nikita deigned to reply. “…n…no,” he whispered, twisting on one heel to stare at Derick. “No. I don’t think I am…”
Even in the dim moonlight, Derick could see that his eyes were wide and scared. Set in Nikita’s painfully young face, it was a frightening expression. It woke him in an instant. Sitting up, he slid his feet out of bed and winced; it was cold. Still, Nikita needed him, clearly. Steeling himself for the chill, he slid completely out of bed and walked over to his lover, trying to surpress shivers. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently, placing a hand on Nikita’s shoulder.
As soon as he touched him, though, Derick knew what the problem was. Nikita’s body fairly hummed with energy, all of it frantic and trapped under his skin. And, knowing Nikita the way he did, he knew that there was only one way that the younger man could release that energy.
Barely thinking about it, Derick shifted his hand, tightening his grasp and bringing it closer to the young man’s throat. “Is this what you need?” he whispered, voice hot and sharp.
In his grasp, Nikita whimpered, shuddering slightly. His eyes slid shut, and his knees noticeably weakened.
“Is this what you need?” Derick repeated forcefully, adding a little hint of a shake to his grasp. “Tell me!”
“Y-yes!” Nikita choked out, whimpering again as Derick shook him. “Yes, oh, god, please!”
Derick nodded sharply. It was late; a glance at the bedside clock told him that. Still, there was no reason they had to be up early the next morning, and it was better to deal with this now, in the dark of night. Nikita was frightened of his own tastes, his own pleasures, and the only way he would truly relax and give in was if the lights were off, the sun was down, and utter exhaustion forced him to beg for it.
“Kneel, now,” Derick ordered, releasing him.
With a barely-audible sigh of pleasure, Nikita let his eyes fall shut again. He sank gracefully to his knees, swaying slightly, but not losing his balance. As soon as his knees hit the rug at the foot of the bed, he widened his stance, crossing one ankle over the other and bracing his arms behind him. Left over right, they twined, his left hand grasping his upper right arm and vice versa.
Though it may have shamed him greatly, Nikita was perfect in his role.
Derick smiled to himself. Nikita, his eyes lowered to the floor, could not see his expression. He could only see his feet as the older man paced slowly around him, tormenting him with guessing. Derick knew that his lover was entirely too restrained to even chance looking, and so he walked calmly to the closet where he kept the toys he used to get the Russian to relax. He moved a few boxes, and then cracked open the plastic case.
A shiver trembled down Nikita’s back, and he almost lost his balance. He swayed dangerously for a moment, and then seemed to catch himself. He knew what the plastic sound meant, and it both frightened and excited him. Indeed, the erection that had begun when Derick grabbed his shoulder was now very obvious, straining at the cotton of his boxers.
Seeing himself so very obviously aroused, Nikita flushed a painful red. He did not enjoy this, being the way he was. It was wrong. It was sick. He was head over heels in love with a teammate, which was bad enough, but he also wanted-no, needed-that same teammate to beat him, to smack him, to order him around.
A soft, choked sob startled Derick as he searched through the crate. His hand landing on what he was searching for (finally!), he quickly rose to his feet and moved out into the room. He didn’t bother closing the closet door behind him.
Nikita was still kneeling in the center of the rug, though his head was bowed lower than before. His dark, blood-and-copper hair fell in front of his face, obscuring his shamed eyes, but leaving the tell-tale blush very visible. His cock, hard and tenting his boxers, was clearly the source of his humiliation, though Derick’s gaze did nothing to help. He was scratching thoughtlessly at his arms, trying not to reach forward and cover himself.
“Let me help you with that,” Derick cooed, kneeling beside the young man. Unraveling the athletic prewrap, he forced Nikita to lift his arms-with his hands still clenched tight-away from his body. The position forced his entire torso forward and down, leaving him in a very uncomfortable half-crunch, but Nikita didn’t complain. He held patiently still while Derick wrapped first his upper arms, then his hands, then his wrists, and finally his forearms in layers of blue prewrap.
Prewrap was a material that had taken them some time to settle upon. It was strong enough to survive most of Nikita’s struggles and unconscious motions, but not so strong that he couldn’t break it, if he needed to. It cut easily, didn’t cut into skin, and didn’t shift.
And it was cheap enough that Derick could, on occasion, bind his young lover from head to foot, as he saw fit.
“Your safe-word,” he muttered in Nikita’s ear as he broke the end of the wrapping, “is red. Yellow to slow down. Green for more.” He pinched the Russian’s left wrist, forcing the prewrap to stick to itself and making Nikita moan all in one. “Understand?”
“Y-yes,” Nikita panted, testing the strength of the wrapping. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Master. Yes, Master.” Nikita struggled not to whimper the last part, Derick’s dominance making the most delicious heat burn in his belly. He wanted nothing more than to kneel there, doing whatever it was Derick wanted, so long as there was sex, and Derick kept ordering him about. He was so hard, and Derick was so close…he could almost imagine just starting to rub himself against Derick’s leg, like a dog.
It was humiliating.
“Good boy,” Derick purred in his ear, trailing his fingernails down Nikita’s sides. They were blunt enough that he had to press down to even begin to leave a mark. He took a moment to enjoy the feeling of Nikita’s soft skin under his fingertips, listening to the little shuddery breaths that the Russian teen sucked in.
Gently, teasingly, he pushed the soft, flannel boxers from his hips, revealing milk-pale skin. As he pushed them further down strong thighs and then bent to work them over Nikita’s knees, he allowed himself to nip one ass cheek, quickly. The way the Russian inhaled quickly, startled, made him grin. Then he removed the fabric entirely, letting Nikita lean on him as he shifted his legs so that he remained kneeling all the while.
Nikita shivered reflexively as Derick pushed himself up, rising to stand directly behind him. He could hear Derick shifting through things, laying them out on the bedspread. Derick was ever careful with their toys; nothing was going to put Nikita at risk. Too, he was a very visual person, and delighted in seeing things laid out beautifully.
Moonlight sparkled on silver chain as Derick lifted the nipple clamps. He stepped around to stand in front of Nikita, slow and commanding. “Clamps,” he said firmly, just as a warning. Stooping down, he teased Nikita’s left nipple into hardness, and then tightened the silver metal around it. It took him a few seconds to repeat the act with the other nipple, and then he stepped back and enjoyed the sight.
Nikita still wasn’t looking at him. His cheeks were flushed, and the gorgeous red tint spread down his neck and chest. The chain linking the two nipple clamps bounced and swayed as he breathed, his breaths coming unevenly and shallow. But he maintained his proud posture, as ever.
“Thank me,” Derick ordered him, a little breathless himself. He liked seeing Nikita this way, liked seeing him completely possessed, completely his. It was a thing of beauty, Nikita in surrender, Nikita dominated. With his beautiful face and his strong body, the young Russian could have whoever and whatever he wanted. Still, he was wearing Derick’s marks, the lines of Derick’s nails, the clamps Derick had selected for him.
Not speaking, Nikita shuffled forward on his knees. Leaning forward slowly so as not to upset his fragile balance too badly, he pressed a soft kiss to Derick’s left foot, and then his right. “Thank you, Master,” he whispered against the soft skin. He kissed his ankle. “Thank you for doing this, Master.” Nikita took a deep, shuddering breath; it tickled as it drew past Derick’s foot. “Thank you for taking the time, Master. This one is unworthy of your attentions.”
He remained bowed, his head folded over Derick’s feet, the ends of his long hair tickling softly. Perfect, humiliated obedience, that’s what it was. He was hard as a rock, every centimeter of his skin aching with sensitivity, burning with the need for a touch. But he wouldn’t move, wouldn’t budge, unless Derick ordered it. Until Derick spoke the word, he was frozen, bound in body and in mind.
“Good,” Derick murmured, staring down the length of his own body to see Nikita. The Russian was folded over himself, over Derick’s feet, a small bundle of wiry muscle and soft skin. “Rise. Move to the chest.”
“Yes, Master,” Nikita replied. Unfolding from his crouch, he shuffled backwards a few steps, and then to the side. Finally turning himself around, he shuffled the length of the room, until he came to the honey-gold wooden chest that sat against the wall. It was old, gorgeous, and just the right height for what they needed. When Derick had seen it in his mother’s house, he had known that he wanted it for his own, and had been gratified when she had eagerly sent it home with him.
When the cool, smooth wood of the lid rested against his hips, Nikita sighed and draped himself over it, turning his face to the side so that his cheek rested on the cool, carved design. His eyes were closed, but a beatific expression was painted across his face as he casually spread his legs a little further apart, perfecting his balance.
“Beautiful,” Derick muttered to himself. Selecting something from the coverlet, he stalked up behind his slave. “Your spine is good,” he murmured, tracing a straight line down the Russian’s back with the corner of the yardstick. “Nice and straight. Your hips are well-aligned; your balance is good. But here… here I see a problem.”
“A problem, Master?” Nikita asked, his voice hesitant and quiet.
“Do you question your Master?” Derick barked, commanding and dark. He swung the yardstick quickly. There was a sharp crack, and a red line began to fade into view on Nikita’s bare ass cheeks.
“N-no, Master!” Nikita yelped, screwing up his eyes and trembling slightly. “This one… this one wishes to know how to please Master!” He bit his lip, the tendons in his neck straining.
“Very well,” Derick replied. “Learning to please your Master is a good thing, slave.” Tenderly, he stroked the young man’s trembling shoulders, letting him feel the gentle touch, letting it soothe him. “Very well. Your stance, slave, is too narrow. We’ve been over this before, I believe. Haven’t we?” As he spoke, he stroked the inside of Nikita’s thighs with the yardstick, tracing the lines of muscle from groin to knee and back again.
“Yes, Master,” Nikita replied. Instinctively, his thighs tightened as he anticipated the blow.
It never fell. Derick merely tapped the yardstick against his knees until his legs were parted to his satisfaction. Then he brought the yardstick up to Nikita’s bound arms. “But here… there’s a new problem, slave. Your shoulders are not straight. Your arms are in my way. You don’t want to prevent your lesson, do you?”
“No, Master,” Nikita answered, the tension in his body still rising. He struggled to straighten out his shoulders against the wood without moving and changing the rest of his posture. When the wood of the yardstick slid under his bound wrists, forcing them up, he moved with the change. With his wrists in this new position, his shoulders were flat against the wood…and his ass was left completely bare.
“Very good,” Derick praised him. “Very good, indeed. But that took too long. I should never have to correct you, slave. You are lucky that this is just a lesson. For that, my time wasted, you shall count every blow. If you miss one, we will start again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Nikita practically panted. The tension in his muscles had him trembling, but he didn’t waver.
He did, however, cringe as the woosh of air heralded the first strike. “One!” he cried out, his fingers clenching on his upper arms.
Derick smiled to himself. Nikita was beautiful in this position, helpless and humiliated, wanting to be punished. His pale golden skin presented the perfect canvas for the most perfect strikes Derick could place, and challenged him to make a work of art. Raising the yardstick, he set to work in earnest.
“Two! Three!” Nikita yelped, then, “four… five… six!” By that point, Derick had hit his stride, and was laying the yardstick in straight, even lines across his ass, one strike immediately followed by another. It was all Nikita could do to keep up, to count along, to not just give in and scream. Derick was a master of the cane, and pushed Nikita to his absolute limits.
Derick kept an eye on the Russian, monitoring his trembling, the clenching of his fists, and the way he sounded as he counted. It was one of the primary reasons he forced Nikita to count during these sessions; the other man’s voice was a brilliant indicator of how he was doing, mentally. By ten, Nikita was yelping. By twenty, he was whimpering. By twenty-five, he was sighing the numbers, breathing them out as the strikes fell.
Well-pleased by the even, bright red tone of the other man’s ass, Derick let the yardstick woosh harmlessly above his skin, watching Nikita’s skin jump in anticipation. Then, stepping away, he lay the yardstick back on the bed. He considered his lover for a moment, and then lifted something else. Stalking back to where the Russian was draped, he reached down with his free hand and stroked his ass.
Nikita’s skin was as hot to the touch as it was red to the eyes. That had to burn something fierce, Derick knew. Come the next morning, Nikita was going to have an interesting time sitting down. Still, his lover was tensed, stressed.
That was where Derick’s personal favourite of all their toys came in. Made of hundreds of thousands of brilliantly-coloured threads of raw silk, the small whip had a wrapped handle that just fit into a grown man’s hand and wide, full tail that was as long as his hand. It demanded precision and knowledge, and was an excellent tool for bringing Nikita to the edge without actually hurting him. It could waver between pain and teasing tickles, and was beautiful to behold.
“Raise up,” Derick commanded. As he had been caning Nikita, the nipple clamps had kept a steady pace, the chaining striking the wood with every unconscious surge of the Russian’s body. Nikita enjoyed them, had even suggested them himself. Still, Derick preferred to keep things safe, and though the clamps advertised that they could be left on for up to an hour, he wasn’t willing to go anywhere near that.
Obediently, Nikita unfolded himself so that his spine was ramrod-straight. He kept his arms out, away from his ass, unconsciously admitting that it hurt like hell. He kept his eyes closed, though they faced straight forward, away from Derick. He knew what his Master was about to do; Derick was practically anal about the clamps. The burn and sting had recently faded to a background buzz, and Nikita knew that was a sure sign they were to come off soon. Derick’s inner timer was as good as Nikita’s body for things like that.
Sure enough, Derick’s hand settled on his chest, right above his left nipple. Derick teased him for a moment, stroking a wide circle around the abused nub for a few seconds before pinching down on the clamp, releasing it. The right clamp came off mere seconds later, the metal chiming as Derick gathered it up in one hand.
The instant they came off, Nikita’s muscles tightened. The pain in his ass was eclipsed by the thundering roar from his nipples, abused tissues screaming in agony as blood rushed back in. it was all he could do to keep from breaking posture, throwing his head back, and screaming. As it was, a sharp, keening whimper broke past his control, and a tear or two began to slide from beneath his closed lids.
Derick, having placed the clamps on the bed, noticed this. He placed a calm, gentle hand on Nikita’s shoulder. “Yellow?” he asked quietly.
Nikita started to shake his head, and then thought better of it and nodded. “Yellow. Just… just give me a… a moment. Please.”
“You got it,” Derick promised, placing the silk whip down. Kneeling behind his lover, he cupped his large hands over the younger man’s pecs, covering his nipples, skin as close as he dared. “You’re okay,” he murmured in his ear. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Closing his eyes, Nikita trembled slightly, the pain beginning to fade. The warmth of Derick’s hands over the tortured tissue chased the pain down to a bearable level. As it did, Nikita worked to even his breathing, and then straighten his posture. “I… I’m good,” he whispered.
Derick rose to his feet, lifting the whip from the floor. “Green?”
“Green, Master.”
“Second stance, slave,” Derick ordered. He cracked the silk whip in the air.
Knowing that it was to save him even the slightest amount of pain, Nikita swallowed a smile and widened his stance, until his knees were as far apart as they could go. Then, careful because of his bound arms, Nikita knelt forward until his forehead rested on the floor. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the throbbing erection between his thighs. Though it had flagged slightly when the nipple clamps were removed, it had roared back in full force when Derick had raised the whip.
“Uh-uh-uh,” Derick tsked. He knew Nikita. “Eyes open, little slave.”
Obedient, Nikita opened his eyes and stared, ashamed, at the sign of his pleasure.
Without warning of any kind, Derick snapped the whip down across his upraised ass. The tiny, thin tails seared across his skin, and Nikita gasped. In second stance, vocalizations were okay, wanted, even. Derick only ever put Nikita in second stance to fuck him or to bring him off, and he liked hearing the Russian in both of those situations.
Hearing Nikita gasp, surprised, made Derick smile. Nikita was beautiful in the breakdown, and the red of his skin and the way his skin tightened and twitched in anticipation was gorgeous. Even after months of these games, every time Derick brought the whip down on his skin surprised him, like he didn’t believe that he deserved it.
“Enjoy this, don’t you?” Derick asked, smirking. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, he ran the tails of the whip up the length of Nikita’s spine, moving from the curve of his ass to the nape of his neck. The silk was gentle, the many tails trickling over his skin in a teasing fall of sensation. But before Nikita could shiver with the ticklish feel, Derick cracked the whip across his ass once more.
“Aaah!” Nikita screamed, the sharp line of his spine tightening as he almost flinched. “M-master,” he stammered out.
“Is that a yes, slave?” Derick asked, his voice smooth as silk and sharp as steel. He drew the tails across the red lines starting to blush into being. He drew the whip down over Nikita’s ass, following the smooth line of his spine until he dropped it down to trail over the exposed skin of his balls, drawn up tight. Without warning, he struck again.
“Y-y-yessss,” the redhead hissed, his back arching.
The whip whistled through the air before striking Nikita again. “Yes, what?” Derick barked.
“Yes, I l-like it, M-masterrrr,” Nikita panted, drawing the “r” out as he began to truly lose himself. He wriggled slightly, feeling energy thrumming beneath his skin. He was no longer thinking of the shame it brought him, his mind instead grasping for how badly he wanted it.
“You’re such a little slut,” Derick whispered, colorful, knotted silk singing through the air before striking Nikita.
With a scream, the redhead came. Because of the position he was in, his own come streaked across his face, leaving stripes that stood out against the red of his cheeks and forehead. He continued to sob in pleasure as Derick dropped to his knees behind him, holding his legs open and holding his hips up so that he could see his humiliation.
“Beautiful,” the older man sighed. He rocked back on his thighs. “But you’re not done yet, slut. Sit up.”
Panting, Nikita struggled to get upright on his knees. It took him a few seconds, considering that his arms were bound behind his back, but he managed it after a few moments. Obedient to the end, he turned to face Derick, though he kept his eyes on the floor.
Derick was silent for a long moment, watching the come drip down his lover’s face in pearly strings. Nikita’s face was still flushed with arousal and shame, and tears were starting to drip down from his eyes. His lips were violently red, as if he had been biting them for a while. They were parted-ever-so slightly, and his chest rose and fell quickly as he panted.
He was beautiful. Derick could feel his blood thrumming in his veins, and he kept his eyes on Nikita’s face as he pulled his sleep pants down to reveal his erection. He did not miss the way Nikita’s eyes followed his cock, nor did he miss the pink tongue that darted across those lips.
“Slave,” he ordered. “Approach.”
The redhead crept forward on his knees, his eyes still fixed on Derick’s heavy cock.
“Suck me,” Derick commanded him.
With startling alacrity, Nikita obeyed. Because his hands were trapped behind him, he had nothing to use but his mouth; Derick had trained him well, and that was all he needed. He wasted no time in licking a long stripe up his Master’s dick, tracing the heavy lines of the ropy veins covering it with his tongue. He knew what his Master liked, and he was determined to give it to him.
“God, yes,” Derick hissed, sliding his fingers into Nikita’s hair. “That’s it…” He carded his fingers through the younger man’s soft hair, resisting the urge to yank the Russian closer by the soft, dark strands. Nikita was a god when it came to giving head, but he would never believe Derick if he said that. Derick was doing everything in his power to convince him that he was worth something, even when he was on his knees as a slave. Choking him on his cock, however tempting it might sound right then, was not the ideal way to do so.
Derick mentally cursed whatever man-or woman-had taught Nikita to be ashamed of what he wanted. Though Nikita never spoke of any former lovers, Derick had seen the scar that marred his otherwise perfect body, and had heard enough nightmares to put it all together. He’d refused to use Nikita as a body slave for three months, just treating him as a house slave until the morning Nikita had wordlessly crawled-on hand and knee-into the shower and sucked him off.
But all thoughts of Nikita’s enslavement slid away as the Russian’s hot mouth engulfed him and swallowed him down. Nikita loved giving head. Derick loved receiving it.
“Good boy,” Derick assured the dark-haired slave, fingers clenching in his hair. As Nikita read the silent signal and froze, Derick smiled. “Very good boy,” he hummed. Carefully disengaging his slave’s mouth from his dick, the Canadian stepped back about a half-step.
Nikita remained where he was, absolutely rock still.
Curling his hand tightly around his aching cock, Derick began to stroke himself. He was very close to the edge already; Nikita’s talents weren’t just on the ice. Still, when Nikita woke in the middle of the night, he needed to put in what he perceived as his place…and kept there. He kept his eyes on Nikita’s still form; he could see the want, hot and bright as lava, in the younger man’s eyes.
And so Derick gave himself over to the pleasure. With a short hiss, he came, his come striping Nikita’s already-dirtied face.
Nikita moaned, the sound resonating deep and low in his chest. His eyes fluttered open as he finally let go of the frenetic energy racing under his skin. They were dark, his pupils huge pits in his face. His lips parted as he drew in shallow breaths; his tongue, startlingly pink, darted out seconds later. He wet his lips, caught a taste of the mingling come in the corner.
Hazily, his eyes focused on his master.
Derick nodded. “Go ahead, slave,” he agreed. “Clean yourself up.”
That was all the command Nikita needed. Closing his eyes once more, he began to lick up as much of the come on his face as he could. He took his time, waiting for gravity to work its inevitable charm; his tongue couldn’t reach very far. He opened his eyes to look pleadingly at Derick.
“Slut,” Derick laughed, but not unkindly. Reaching down, he quickly tore through the prewrap holding Nikita’s arms in place. “Get clean.”
Immediately, Nikita’s hands rose to his face. Closing his eyes, he used his fingers to wipe the come from his skin. He worked in slow, careful lines, removing come from his face only to cover his fingers. He would then bring them to his mouth and suck them off, slowly, carefully, being sure to get every hint of mess off of them.
Derick could only watch him, breath catching in his chest. Nikita was gorgeous. Derick, who had played with various slaves, had never seen someone so beautifully surrendered as the young man. And it was obvious that Nikita enjoyed it…needed it…even though the slightest hinting at it made him blush. He was a set of contradictions, was Nikita Filatov.
“Master,” Nikita whimpered, eyes once more obedient on the floor, hands loose at his side. “Master, your slave is clean.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Derick told him. He cupped Nikita’s chin in his palm and turned the boy’s face to his. Gently, he drew his spare hand over the arching, flushed cheekbones. Nikita had done a good job cleaning himself, but he was constrained by the limits of hands and tongue. He was clean, but not completely.
“Get on the bed,” Derick ordered him. Turning his back on his subdued slave, he stepped into the bathroom. A soft flannel hung over the side of the sink; Nikita had washed his face with some anti-acne medication before going to bed. Derick picked it up and turned on the water, waiting for it to warm up. When it was suitably warm, he soaked the flannel, wrung it out, and returned to the bedroom.
Nikita was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a little nervous. “M-Master…” he began tentatively.
“Shh, Nikita,” Derick soothed him, subtly letting him know that the scene was over. “Calm down. I’m just going to clean you up.” He sat down, carefully, on the edge of the mattress next to his lover.
The first touch of the flannel made Nikita flinch, just a little. Derick soothed him wordlessly, stroking his shoulders and urging him to lean against his body. All the while, he swept the flannel over his face and throat, across his shoulders, and over a little of his chest. He whispered silly, meaningless things as he bathed him, just keeping up a steady flow of calm, even sound.
It did not take long for Nikita to droop into sleep, cradled in the hollow of Derick’s embrace. As soon as he was sure of the younger man’s unconsciousness, Derick lay him carefully down on the bed. Rising, he picked up the Russian’s long legs and laid them down, gently, on top of the sheets. He then returned the flannel to the sink, and himself to the bedroom.
“Sleep, love,” he whispered above Nikita’s brow, before laying down and flicking the sheet over their bodies.
Cut text comes from a poem I wrote for my portfolio of works for college applications; apparently my BDSM poetry gets me into college. Strange world.
I have been working on this peace since early October 2008. It has been slow going, and I cannot thank skye_chan14 nearly enough for all the hand-holding and encouragement, and for casting a weathered eye over it this evening.
Without further ado, let me present, In the Dark.
Title: In the Dark
Author: creepy_crawly
Rating: Um. NC-17. Definitely.
Warnings: Hockey. Slash. BDSM.
Pairing/Those Involved: Derick Brassard/Nikita Filatov
Disclaimer: I own them. No, seriously. They live in my basement with Johnny Depp and my pet dragon.
Summary: Nikita cannot hide his needs in the dark.
“Mmm, Niki, love,” Derick moaned, rolling onto his side, not even bothering to open his eyes. He patted the empty stretch of mattress half-heartedly. “Love, please, go back to sleep.”
Seated on the edge of the mattress, leaning with his elbows on his knees, Nikita shook his head. “I…I can’t, Der,” he muttered. “I just…”
After a moment’s pause, Derick cracked open an eye and turned to look at his lover. “Niki? Are you okay?” he asked, confused and worried. Nikita was not acting like his usual, calm self.
Not replying, the Russian suddenly rose to his feet and began to pace around the room, walking in and out of patches of moonlight. His feet whispered over the carpet as he paced, his face pensive, his shoulders tense. He looked like a tiger, caged, penned in, with all that fierce energy ready to explode and with nowhere to go.
As he paced, he fingered his wrists, unconsciously. He craned his neck from side to side, not saying anything, just twisting this way and that. Derick watched him walk, confusion and tiredness leaving him clueless as to his lover’s behavior. “Love?” he asked again. “Are you alright?”
This time, Nikita deigned to reply. “…n…no,” he whispered, twisting on one heel to stare at Derick. “No. I don’t think I am…”
Even in the dim moonlight, Derick could see that his eyes were wide and scared. Set in Nikita’s painfully young face, it was a frightening expression. It woke him in an instant. Sitting up, he slid his feet out of bed and winced; it was cold. Still, Nikita needed him, clearly. Steeling himself for the chill, he slid completely out of bed and walked over to his lover, trying to surpress shivers. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently, placing a hand on Nikita’s shoulder.
As soon as he touched him, though, Derick knew what the problem was. Nikita’s body fairly hummed with energy, all of it frantic and trapped under his skin. And, knowing Nikita the way he did, he knew that there was only one way that the younger man could release that energy.
Barely thinking about it, Derick shifted his hand, tightening his grasp and bringing it closer to the young man’s throat. “Is this what you need?” he whispered, voice hot and sharp.
In his grasp, Nikita whimpered, shuddering slightly. His eyes slid shut, and his knees noticeably weakened.
“Is this what you need?” Derick repeated forcefully, adding a little hint of a shake to his grasp. “Tell me!”
“Y-yes!” Nikita choked out, whimpering again as Derick shook him. “Yes, oh, god, please!”
Derick nodded sharply. It was late; a glance at the bedside clock told him that. Still, there was no reason they had to be up early the next morning, and it was better to deal with this now, in the dark of night. Nikita was frightened of his own tastes, his own pleasures, and the only way he would truly relax and give in was if the lights were off, the sun was down, and utter exhaustion forced him to beg for it.
“Kneel, now,” Derick ordered, releasing him.
With a barely-audible sigh of pleasure, Nikita let his eyes fall shut again. He sank gracefully to his knees, swaying slightly, but not losing his balance. As soon as his knees hit the rug at the foot of the bed, he widened his stance, crossing one ankle over the other and bracing his arms behind him. Left over right, they twined, his left hand grasping his upper right arm and vice versa.
Though it may have shamed him greatly, Nikita was perfect in his role.
Derick smiled to himself. Nikita, his eyes lowered to the floor, could not see his expression. He could only see his feet as the older man paced slowly around him, tormenting him with guessing. Derick knew that his lover was entirely too restrained to even chance looking, and so he walked calmly to the closet where he kept the toys he used to get the Russian to relax. He moved a few boxes, and then cracked open the plastic case.
A shiver trembled down Nikita’s back, and he almost lost his balance. He swayed dangerously for a moment, and then seemed to catch himself. He knew what the plastic sound meant, and it both frightened and excited him. Indeed, the erection that had begun when Derick grabbed his shoulder was now very obvious, straining at the cotton of his boxers.
Seeing himself so very obviously aroused, Nikita flushed a painful red. He did not enjoy this, being the way he was. It was wrong. It was sick. He was head over heels in love with a teammate, which was bad enough, but he also wanted-no, needed-that same teammate to beat him, to smack him, to order him around.
A soft, choked sob startled Derick as he searched through the crate. His hand landing on what he was searching for (finally!), he quickly rose to his feet and moved out into the room. He didn’t bother closing the closet door behind him.
Nikita was still kneeling in the center of the rug, though his head was bowed lower than before. His dark, blood-and-copper hair fell in front of his face, obscuring his shamed eyes, but leaving the tell-tale blush very visible. His cock, hard and tenting his boxers, was clearly the source of his humiliation, though Derick’s gaze did nothing to help. He was scratching thoughtlessly at his arms, trying not to reach forward and cover himself.
“Let me help you with that,” Derick cooed, kneeling beside the young man. Unraveling the athletic prewrap, he forced Nikita to lift his arms-with his hands still clenched tight-away from his body. The position forced his entire torso forward and down, leaving him in a very uncomfortable half-crunch, but Nikita didn’t complain. He held patiently still while Derick wrapped first his upper arms, then his hands, then his wrists, and finally his forearms in layers of blue prewrap.
Prewrap was a material that had taken them some time to settle upon. It was strong enough to survive most of Nikita’s struggles and unconscious motions, but not so strong that he couldn’t break it, if he needed to. It cut easily, didn’t cut into skin, and didn’t shift.
And it was cheap enough that Derick could, on occasion, bind his young lover from head to foot, as he saw fit.
“Your safe-word,” he muttered in Nikita’s ear as he broke the end of the wrapping, “is red. Yellow to slow down. Green for more.” He pinched the Russian’s left wrist, forcing the prewrap to stick to itself and making Nikita moan all in one. “Understand?”
“Y-yes,” Nikita panted, testing the strength of the wrapping. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Master. Yes, Master.” Nikita struggled not to whimper the last part, Derick’s dominance making the most delicious heat burn in his belly. He wanted nothing more than to kneel there, doing whatever it was Derick wanted, so long as there was sex, and Derick kept ordering him about. He was so hard, and Derick was so close…he could almost imagine just starting to rub himself against Derick’s leg, like a dog.
It was humiliating.
“Good boy,” Derick purred in his ear, trailing his fingernails down Nikita’s sides. They were blunt enough that he had to press down to even begin to leave a mark. He took a moment to enjoy the feeling of Nikita’s soft skin under his fingertips, listening to the little shuddery breaths that the Russian teen sucked in.
Gently, teasingly, he pushed the soft, flannel boxers from his hips, revealing milk-pale skin. As he pushed them further down strong thighs and then bent to work them over Nikita’s knees, he allowed himself to nip one ass cheek, quickly. The way the Russian inhaled quickly, startled, made him grin. Then he removed the fabric entirely, letting Nikita lean on him as he shifted his legs so that he remained kneeling all the while.
Nikita shivered reflexively as Derick pushed himself up, rising to stand directly behind him. He could hear Derick shifting through things, laying them out on the bedspread. Derick was ever careful with their toys; nothing was going to put Nikita at risk. Too, he was a very visual person, and delighted in seeing things laid out beautifully.
Moonlight sparkled on silver chain as Derick lifted the nipple clamps. He stepped around to stand in front of Nikita, slow and commanding. “Clamps,” he said firmly, just as a warning. Stooping down, he teased Nikita’s left nipple into hardness, and then tightened the silver metal around it. It took him a few seconds to repeat the act with the other nipple, and then he stepped back and enjoyed the sight.
Nikita still wasn’t looking at him. His cheeks were flushed, and the gorgeous red tint spread down his neck and chest. The chain linking the two nipple clamps bounced and swayed as he breathed, his breaths coming unevenly and shallow. But he maintained his proud posture, as ever.
“Thank me,” Derick ordered him, a little breathless himself. He liked seeing Nikita this way, liked seeing him completely possessed, completely his. It was a thing of beauty, Nikita in surrender, Nikita dominated. With his beautiful face and his strong body, the young Russian could have whoever and whatever he wanted. Still, he was wearing Derick’s marks, the lines of Derick’s nails, the clamps Derick had selected for him.
Not speaking, Nikita shuffled forward on his knees. Leaning forward slowly so as not to upset his fragile balance too badly, he pressed a soft kiss to Derick’s left foot, and then his right. “Thank you, Master,” he whispered against the soft skin. He kissed his ankle. “Thank you for doing this, Master.” Nikita took a deep, shuddering breath; it tickled as it drew past Derick’s foot. “Thank you for taking the time, Master. This one is unworthy of your attentions.”
He remained bowed, his head folded over Derick’s feet, the ends of his long hair tickling softly. Perfect, humiliated obedience, that’s what it was. He was hard as a rock, every centimeter of his skin aching with sensitivity, burning with the need for a touch. But he wouldn’t move, wouldn’t budge, unless Derick ordered it. Until Derick spoke the word, he was frozen, bound in body and in mind.
“Good,” Derick murmured, staring down the length of his own body to see Nikita. The Russian was folded over himself, over Derick’s feet, a small bundle of wiry muscle and soft skin. “Rise. Move to the chest.”
“Yes, Master,” Nikita replied. Unfolding from his crouch, he shuffled backwards a few steps, and then to the side. Finally turning himself around, he shuffled the length of the room, until he came to the honey-gold wooden chest that sat against the wall. It was old, gorgeous, and just the right height for what they needed. When Derick had seen it in his mother’s house, he had known that he wanted it for his own, and had been gratified when she had eagerly sent it home with him.
When the cool, smooth wood of the lid rested against his hips, Nikita sighed and draped himself over it, turning his face to the side so that his cheek rested on the cool, carved design. His eyes were closed, but a beatific expression was painted across his face as he casually spread his legs a little further apart, perfecting his balance.
“Beautiful,” Derick muttered to himself. Selecting something from the coverlet, he stalked up behind his slave. “Your spine is good,” he murmured, tracing a straight line down the Russian’s back with the corner of the yardstick. “Nice and straight. Your hips are well-aligned; your balance is good. But here… here I see a problem.”
“A problem, Master?” Nikita asked, his voice hesitant and quiet.
“Do you question your Master?” Derick barked, commanding and dark. He swung the yardstick quickly. There was a sharp crack, and a red line began to fade into view on Nikita’s bare ass cheeks.
“N-no, Master!” Nikita yelped, screwing up his eyes and trembling slightly. “This one… this one wishes to know how to please Master!” He bit his lip, the tendons in his neck straining.
“Very well,” Derick replied. “Learning to please your Master is a good thing, slave.” Tenderly, he stroked the young man’s trembling shoulders, letting him feel the gentle touch, letting it soothe him. “Very well. Your stance, slave, is too narrow. We’ve been over this before, I believe. Haven’t we?” As he spoke, he stroked the inside of Nikita’s thighs with the yardstick, tracing the lines of muscle from groin to knee and back again.
“Yes, Master,” Nikita replied. Instinctively, his thighs tightened as he anticipated the blow.
It never fell. Derick merely tapped the yardstick against his knees until his legs were parted to his satisfaction. Then he brought the yardstick up to Nikita’s bound arms. “But here… there’s a new problem, slave. Your shoulders are not straight. Your arms are in my way. You don’t want to prevent your lesson, do you?”
“No, Master,” Nikita answered, the tension in his body still rising. He struggled to straighten out his shoulders against the wood without moving and changing the rest of his posture. When the wood of the yardstick slid under his bound wrists, forcing them up, he moved with the change. With his wrists in this new position, his shoulders were flat against the wood…and his ass was left completely bare.
“Very good,” Derick praised him. “Very good, indeed. But that took too long. I should never have to correct you, slave. You are lucky that this is just a lesson. For that, my time wasted, you shall count every blow. If you miss one, we will start again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Nikita practically panted. The tension in his muscles had him trembling, but he didn’t waver.
He did, however, cringe as the woosh of air heralded the first strike. “One!” he cried out, his fingers clenching on his upper arms.
Derick smiled to himself. Nikita was beautiful in this position, helpless and humiliated, wanting to be punished. His pale golden skin presented the perfect canvas for the most perfect strikes Derick could place, and challenged him to make a work of art. Raising the yardstick, he set to work in earnest.
“Two! Three!” Nikita yelped, then, “four… five… six!” By that point, Derick had hit his stride, and was laying the yardstick in straight, even lines across his ass, one strike immediately followed by another. It was all Nikita could do to keep up, to count along, to not just give in and scream. Derick was a master of the cane, and pushed Nikita to his absolute limits.
Derick kept an eye on the Russian, monitoring his trembling, the clenching of his fists, and the way he sounded as he counted. It was one of the primary reasons he forced Nikita to count during these sessions; the other man’s voice was a brilliant indicator of how he was doing, mentally. By ten, Nikita was yelping. By twenty, he was whimpering. By twenty-five, he was sighing the numbers, breathing them out as the strikes fell.
Well-pleased by the even, bright red tone of the other man’s ass, Derick let the yardstick woosh harmlessly above his skin, watching Nikita’s skin jump in anticipation. Then, stepping away, he lay the yardstick back on the bed. He considered his lover for a moment, and then lifted something else. Stalking back to where the Russian was draped, he reached down with his free hand and stroked his ass.
Nikita’s skin was as hot to the touch as it was red to the eyes. That had to burn something fierce, Derick knew. Come the next morning, Nikita was going to have an interesting time sitting down. Still, his lover was tensed, stressed.
That was where Derick’s personal favourite of all their toys came in. Made of hundreds of thousands of brilliantly-coloured threads of raw silk, the small whip had a wrapped handle that just fit into a grown man’s hand and wide, full tail that was as long as his hand. It demanded precision and knowledge, and was an excellent tool for bringing Nikita to the edge without actually hurting him. It could waver between pain and teasing tickles, and was beautiful to behold.
“Raise up,” Derick commanded. As he had been caning Nikita, the nipple clamps had kept a steady pace, the chaining striking the wood with every unconscious surge of the Russian’s body. Nikita enjoyed them, had even suggested them himself. Still, Derick preferred to keep things safe, and though the clamps advertised that they could be left on for up to an hour, he wasn’t willing to go anywhere near that.
Obediently, Nikita unfolded himself so that his spine was ramrod-straight. He kept his arms out, away from his ass, unconsciously admitting that it hurt like hell. He kept his eyes closed, though they faced straight forward, away from Derick. He knew what his Master was about to do; Derick was practically anal about the clamps. The burn and sting had recently faded to a background buzz, and Nikita knew that was a sure sign they were to come off soon. Derick’s inner timer was as good as Nikita’s body for things like that.
Sure enough, Derick’s hand settled on his chest, right above his left nipple. Derick teased him for a moment, stroking a wide circle around the abused nub for a few seconds before pinching down on the clamp, releasing it. The right clamp came off mere seconds later, the metal chiming as Derick gathered it up in one hand.
The instant they came off, Nikita’s muscles tightened. The pain in his ass was eclipsed by the thundering roar from his nipples, abused tissues screaming in agony as blood rushed back in. it was all he could do to keep from breaking posture, throwing his head back, and screaming. As it was, a sharp, keening whimper broke past his control, and a tear or two began to slide from beneath his closed lids.
Derick, having placed the clamps on the bed, noticed this. He placed a calm, gentle hand on Nikita’s shoulder. “Yellow?” he asked quietly.
Nikita started to shake his head, and then thought better of it and nodded. “Yellow. Just… just give me a… a moment. Please.”
“You got it,” Derick promised, placing the silk whip down. Kneeling behind his lover, he cupped his large hands over the younger man’s pecs, covering his nipples, skin as close as he dared. “You’re okay,” he murmured in his ear. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Closing his eyes, Nikita trembled slightly, the pain beginning to fade. The warmth of Derick’s hands over the tortured tissue chased the pain down to a bearable level. As it did, Nikita worked to even his breathing, and then straighten his posture. “I… I’m good,” he whispered.
Derick rose to his feet, lifting the whip from the floor. “Green?”
“Green, Master.”
“Second stance, slave,” Derick ordered. He cracked the silk whip in the air.
Knowing that it was to save him even the slightest amount of pain, Nikita swallowed a smile and widened his stance, until his knees were as far apart as they could go. Then, careful because of his bound arms, Nikita knelt forward until his forehead rested on the floor. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the throbbing erection between his thighs. Though it had flagged slightly when the nipple clamps were removed, it had roared back in full force when Derick had raised the whip.
“Uh-uh-uh,” Derick tsked. He knew Nikita. “Eyes open, little slave.”
Obedient, Nikita opened his eyes and stared, ashamed, at the sign of his pleasure.
Without warning of any kind, Derick snapped the whip down across his upraised ass. The tiny, thin tails seared across his skin, and Nikita gasped. In second stance, vocalizations were okay, wanted, even. Derick only ever put Nikita in second stance to fuck him or to bring him off, and he liked hearing the Russian in both of those situations.
Hearing Nikita gasp, surprised, made Derick smile. Nikita was beautiful in the breakdown, and the red of his skin and the way his skin tightened and twitched in anticipation was gorgeous. Even after months of these games, every time Derick brought the whip down on his skin surprised him, like he didn’t believe that he deserved it.
“Enjoy this, don’t you?” Derick asked, smirking. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, he ran the tails of the whip up the length of Nikita’s spine, moving from the curve of his ass to the nape of his neck. The silk was gentle, the many tails trickling over his skin in a teasing fall of sensation. But before Nikita could shiver with the ticklish feel, Derick cracked the whip across his ass once more.
“Aaah!” Nikita screamed, the sharp line of his spine tightening as he almost flinched. “M-master,” he stammered out.
“Is that a yes, slave?” Derick asked, his voice smooth as silk and sharp as steel. He drew the tails across the red lines starting to blush into being. He drew the whip down over Nikita’s ass, following the smooth line of his spine until he dropped it down to trail over the exposed skin of his balls, drawn up tight. Without warning, he struck again.
“Y-y-yessss,” the redhead hissed, his back arching.
The whip whistled through the air before striking Nikita again. “Yes, what?” Derick barked.
“Yes, I l-like it, M-masterrrr,” Nikita panted, drawing the “r” out as he began to truly lose himself. He wriggled slightly, feeling energy thrumming beneath his skin. He was no longer thinking of the shame it brought him, his mind instead grasping for how badly he wanted it.
“You’re such a little slut,” Derick whispered, colorful, knotted silk singing through the air before striking Nikita.
With a scream, the redhead came. Because of the position he was in, his own come streaked across his face, leaving stripes that stood out against the red of his cheeks and forehead. He continued to sob in pleasure as Derick dropped to his knees behind him, holding his legs open and holding his hips up so that he could see his humiliation.
“Beautiful,” the older man sighed. He rocked back on his thighs. “But you’re not done yet, slut. Sit up.”
Panting, Nikita struggled to get upright on his knees. It took him a few seconds, considering that his arms were bound behind his back, but he managed it after a few moments. Obedient to the end, he turned to face Derick, though he kept his eyes on the floor.
Derick was silent for a long moment, watching the come drip down his lover’s face in pearly strings. Nikita’s face was still flushed with arousal and shame, and tears were starting to drip down from his eyes. His lips were violently red, as if he had been biting them for a while. They were parted-ever-so slightly, and his chest rose and fell quickly as he panted.
He was beautiful. Derick could feel his blood thrumming in his veins, and he kept his eyes on Nikita’s face as he pulled his sleep pants down to reveal his erection. He did not miss the way Nikita’s eyes followed his cock, nor did he miss the pink tongue that darted across those lips.
“Slave,” he ordered. “Approach.”
The redhead crept forward on his knees, his eyes still fixed on Derick’s heavy cock.
“Suck me,” Derick commanded him.
With startling alacrity, Nikita obeyed. Because his hands were trapped behind him, he had nothing to use but his mouth; Derick had trained him well, and that was all he needed. He wasted no time in licking a long stripe up his Master’s dick, tracing the heavy lines of the ropy veins covering it with his tongue. He knew what his Master liked, and he was determined to give it to him.
“God, yes,” Derick hissed, sliding his fingers into Nikita’s hair. “That’s it…” He carded his fingers through the younger man’s soft hair, resisting the urge to yank the Russian closer by the soft, dark strands. Nikita was a god when it came to giving head, but he would never believe Derick if he said that. Derick was doing everything in his power to convince him that he was worth something, even when he was on his knees as a slave. Choking him on his cock, however tempting it might sound right then, was not the ideal way to do so.
Derick mentally cursed whatever man-or woman-had taught Nikita to be ashamed of what he wanted. Though Nikita never spoke of any former lovers, Derick had seen the scar that marred his otherwise perfect body, and had heard enough nightmares to put it all together. He’d refused to use Nikita as a body slave for three months, just treating him as a house slave until the morning Nikita had wordlessly crawled-on hand and knee-into the shower and sucked him off.
But all thoughts of Nikita’s enslavement slid away as the Russian’s hot mouth engulfed him and swallowed him down. Nikita loved giving head. Derick loved receiving it.
“Good boy,” Derick assured the dark-haired slave, fingers clenching in his hair. As Nikita read the silent signal and froze, Derick smiled. “Very good boy,” he hummed. Carefully disengaging his slave’s mouth from his dick, the Canadian stepped back about a half-step.
Nikita remained where he was, absolutely rock still.
Curling his hand tightly around his aching cock, Derick began to stroke himself. He was very close to the edge already; Nikita’s talents weren’t just on the ice. Still, when Nikita woke in the middle of the night, he needed to put in what he perceived as his place…and kept there. He kept his eyes on Nikita’s still form; he could see the want, hot and bright as lava, in the younger man’s eyes.
And so Derick gave himself over to the pleasure. With a short hiss, he came, his come striping Nikita’s already-dirtied face.
Nikita moaned, the sound resonating deep and low in his chest. His eyes fluttered open as he finally let go of the frenetic energy racing under his skin. They were dark, his pupils huge pits in his face. His lips parted as he drew in shallow breaths; his tongue, startlingly pink, darted out seconds later. He wet his lips, caught a taste of the mingling come in the corner.
Hazily, his eyes focused on his master.
Derick nodded. “Go ahead, slave,” he agreed. “Clean yourself up.”
That was all the command Nikita needed. Closing his eyes once more, he began to lick up as much of the come on his face as he could. He took his time, waiting for gravity to work its inevitable charm; his tongue couldn’t reach very far. He opened his eyes to look pleadingly at Derick.
“Slut,” Derick laughed, but not unkindly. Reaching down, he quickly tore through the prewrap holding Nikita’s arms in place. “Get clean.”
Immediately, Nikita’s hands rose to his face. Closing his eyes, he used his fingers to wipe the come from his skin. He worked in slow, careful lines, removing come from his face only to cover his fingers. He would then bring them to his mouth and suck them off, slowly, carefully, being sure to get every hint of mess off of them.
Derick could only watch him, breath catching in his chest. Nikita was gorgeous. Derick, who had played with various slaves, had never seen someone so beautifully surrendered as the young man. And it was obvious that Nikita enjoyed it…needed it…even though the slightest hinting at it made him blush. He was a set of contradictions, was Nikita Filatov.
“Master,” Nikita whimpered, eyes once more obedient on the floor, hands loose at his side. “Master, your slave is clean.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Derick told him. He cupped Nikita’s chin in his palm and turned the boy’s face to his. Gently, he drew his spare hand over the arching, flushed cheekbones. Nikita had done a good job cleaning himself, but he was constrained by the limits of hands and tongue. He was clean, but not completely.
“Get on the bed,” Derick ordered him. Turning his back on his subdued slave, he stepped into the bathroom. A soft flannel hung over the side of the sink; Nikita had washed his face with some anti-acne medication before going to bed. Derick picked it up and turned on the water, waiting for it to warm up. When it was suitably warm, he soaked the flannel, wrung it out, and returned to the bedroom.
Nikita was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a little nervous. “M-Master…” he began tentatively.
“Shh, Nikita,” Derick soothed him, subtly letting him know that the scene was over. “Calm down. I’m just going to clean you up.” He sat down, carefully, on the edge of the mattress next to his lover.
The first touch of the flannel made Nikita flinch, just a little. Derick soothed him wordlessly, stroking his shoulders and urging him to lean against his body. All the while, he swept the flannel over his face and throat, across his shoulders, and over a little of his chest. He whispered silly, meaningless things as he bathed him, just keeping up a steady flow of calm, even sound.
It did not take long for Nikita to droop into sleep, cradled in the hollow of Derick’s embrace. As soon as he was sure of the younger man’s unconsciousness, Derick lay him carefully down on the bed. Rising, he picked up the Russian’s long legs and laid them down, gently, on top of the sheets. He then returned the flannel to the sink, and himself to the bedroom.
“Sleep, love,” he whispered above Nikita’s brow, before laying down and flicking the sheet over their bodies.
Cut text comes from a poem I wrote for my portfolio of works for college applications; apparently my BDSM poetry gets me into college. Strange world.