Fine Dining - Knives/Legato - NC-17

[intravenusann]

Title: Fine Dining
Rating: X
Summary: Pre-July Legato cooks, gets drunk, and gets fucked stupid.
Disclaimer: I'm really sorry. I put my scincerest apology out to Yasuhiro Nightow, because these aren't my characters, I'm not making any money, and I've a very bad person for what I've done.
Warnings: Cannibalism. Heavy, heavy, heavy kink. Making you think about Plant biology in the middle of a smut fic. Serious trauma being exploited for the purpose of... something.
Inspired by the apparent lack of good food farming on Gunsmoke, how very creepy the water barons are, Legato's f-f-fucked up backstory, Knives' accidental image as a wine drinking gourmet, the fact that effectively when surrounded by an obnoxious prey species the answer should totally be shoot it and eat it, the fact that I eat venizon and like it very much, the fact that in all those future dystopias the humanoid obnoxious prey species also gets their brains fucked out by the cranky minority dominant predator species, the fact that LxK is in fact bestiality, and the fact that I'm just a sick freak.


He picked the habit up from a particularly disgusting man who was attempting, as far as he could tell, to become a business associate of his. In the end they didn’t see eye to eye and he’d reduced him to his component atoms. It’d been really quite satisfying.

Afterward he’d had to leave through the kitchen back door and he’d past the walk-in freezer and he. Well, in good conscience he couldn’t just let it go to waste.

There were no large stock animals on Gunsmoke. There were animals for transport first and eating afterwards. Of course they produces the bitterest, toughest meat imaginable, and he’d never considered that it could be better. He knew it had once been much better. Master often spoke with a certain nostalgia of truly good food and neither of them knew what the choices might have been for people like them, people who cared about taste and dancing gracefully into oncoming doom and enjoying the apocalypse, on Earth.

He took the entire contents of the freezer.

The largest steak defrosted with the least look of bleeding mush so he started on it. He cooled it until it was easy to cut and then sliced it into thin slabs of meat. He ground salt into them with his bare hands until the crystals bite into him and made him bleed. Well, it’d probably only add to the flavor. He stared at it after that and considered what it might taste like. He’d spent a good deal of his life before now in leisure, and he considered just how soft, fatty, and tender that would make this steak. His mouth watered.

Still, the fat might be rancid or tainted with drugs. He’d have to try a light cover flavor. He crushed root cloves until they gave juice, filling the air with a pungent odor that made his stomach turn hungrily just below his diaphragm. Then he chopped a sharp vitamin C rich grass and added it. He made the marinade with a liberal helping of red wine gone vinegar. The sting of acid ought to cover any unpleasant taste inherent to the steak. He let it soak.

When it cooked over the foul smelling blue flame the smell of bubbling fat and cooking meat and sizzling vinegar traveled for miles.

“What are you doing,” He demanded, appearing suddenly against the cockeyed metal cabinets.

Legato let his hair fall completely over his eyes. The left corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.

“I’m cooking,” he explained. There was a long pause he stopped watching the bubbling pan and the shift of color in the meat and chanced a look to the side. His Master, his Master, was lounged against the cabinets with a sort of casual grace. One foot tucked over the other in thin black boots, forearms braced tightly on the countertop, and his head leaned back just slightly. He was smiling, almost.

“It smells delicious,” He said, looking Legato straight in the eye through his hair. Legato froze and looked away hurriedly.

“When it’s finished, bring it to my room.” Legato was so surprised he turned his head with a foolish jerking motion. Knives was gone. A whisper ghosted across his mind, it sounded almost like please and it made insects crawl on Legato’s nerves. He wore thick black clothing these days, but he still thought he felt a hand almost touching his lower back, maybe his shoulder, and leaving very quickly.

He had completely lost track of how long the steak had been laying on this side. He scrambled to turn it over.

When it was done it was perfect, absolutely perfect. He was kind of afraid to cut into it, but at the same time his lips had gone soft and wet from spit just because of hunger. He could taste acid in the back of his mouth; he was that hungry. Still, he waited. He put it on low heat and cover it to find a platter big enough for it. It almost hung over on one end, but that added a certain presentation value to it. He drizzled the leftover marinade, warm from sitting close to the burner, over the top and the sourgrass and the broken clove bits looked amazing.

Suddenly he realized he hadn’t cooked anything else. He winced to himself. He was embarrassed, maybe humiliated even. He should think things through. He’d been so eager to try this and… He checked the supplies. Of course there was nothing. He didn’t let himself lose composure. He took a deep breath, told his heart to stop fluttering and clenching, and tucked the over hanging corner into the cover.

His Master’s room wasn’t so much a room as a huge section of the downed ship. It was beautiful, filled with plants and the architechtural remaments of dead cultures from a dead planet. There was a curving table made of some dark wood that looked like it had been polished with blood. He hadn’t asked about it, he might never ask about it, but he was thinking it hadn’t.

He set the platter down with as small a clatter as he could manage. There were already full table settings in shining silver resting over folded cloth napkins. He looked at the small spoons and the tiny oddly tined forks with guilt.

“Have a seat, Legato,” He was suddenly just a few feet away with his arms crossed over his chest.

Legato pulled the chair out with shockingly numb fingers. They sat at opposing ends of the table, a long blood color expanse of wood between them. He followed Knives’ lead because his concepts of proper eating were still utterly lacking. He might be able to cook now, but he still fetl and urge to just pick the still bubbling piece of meat up and tear into with his teeth. Something about his hunger levels still had the edge of urgency that starvation had had the few times he hadn’t eaten.

His Master chewed slowly and thoughtfully with his eyes faraway. He let them slide closed and he smiled as he swallowed. The bob of his exposed Adam’s apple made Legato’s hunger stop cold for a moment. Then it came back with full force.

He put the bite resting dangerously on his fork into his mouth. Before he even got to chewing the flavor of the marinade bit into his tongue and filled his mouth with the sour bite of vinegar and the bitter grease. The meat gave softly to the press of his teeth. His stomach begged him to swallow, and bizarrely he felt the slightest tug at his groin. He still wasn’t used to good food outside the context of other things, obviously.

His Master ate slowly and carefully, his smile growing all the time. He drank his wine heavily, refilling from the bottle before the glass was even empty. It dawned, albeit slowly, on Legato that He was happy. This was his Master enjoying himself outside of intellectual pursuits, carnage, or distant memories.

Legato let the next bite he takes cover for any biologic responses like smiling or arousal that this thought pressed on him.

“This is amazing,” He stated. “Where did you get this.” It was amazing how His questions always sounded like demands, even curved around his smile.

“A possible business associate of yours, I killed him, this was in his freezer,” Legato explained. His voice was low enough to sound like a monotone no matter what, of this he was glad.

“Do you know what it is,” He asked.

“I believe that it is a human thigh,” Legato said coldly, in order to cover his ridiculous nerves. “The associate was a cannibal.”

Knives looked at his plate for a long moment. Legato was suddenly very afraid. His stomach was rejecting the meal it so desperately wanted just a moment ago. Then his Master looked back up, his smile was so wide Legato could see his bright, sharp teeth. Then he laughed. Not the cruel laughter or the grief tinged laughter, but the kind that shook his shoulders and forced him to hold his head up so it didn’t crash into the table with the force of his laughter. Legato sat stunned at the other end of the table.

“Will you never cease to be interesting, Legato,” He asked. Legato took a long while to consider an answer. He chewed another bite of steak to soothe his worried stomach. Knives combed his gloved fingers through his hair and collected himself.

“I hope not, Master,” Legato answered at last. Knives smiled, something also new and peculiar.


They ate and talked and drank and drank and drank. His Master’s left glove ended up resting white against the dark red table and his black and white suit was unzipped from the throat to the sternum, for comfort and because he was just the slightest bit drunk. Legato wasn’t fond of alcohol, though it went magnificently well with the steak. He found himself coming to the bitter residue at the bottom of the glass at least twice, a drunken flush warming his face.

“This is absolutely delicious,” his Master announced, sliding a bare fork into his mouth presumably to get any excess sauce off of it.

“Thank you,” Legato squeaked out, though his voice was too thick and deep to sound the way he’d expected it might. His hands folded neatly in his lap and reminded him why it still was a very bad idea for him to become uninhibited. His body was still harshly tuned to respond in certain ways to certain drugs, alcohol was the first and foremost. Quite possibly that was why even the smell of beer made his stomach turn. It was so cheap and foul smelling, nothing at all like the rich sour wines his Master favored.

There was a long pause where the sound of utensils scraping the last bits of meat across china seemed to rattle in his head. The taste of it, the feeling of muscle fibers falling apart on his tongue cleared his mind and made him sigh.

“You are…” Knives searched for a word; Legato’s eyes locked on him from behind the fall of his hair. He got up from the table, his chair screaming at the sudden shove out and away. He walked around, arms tucked like folded wings behind his back.

“Impassioned” was the word he provided eventually, though the lilt of his voice made it almost obvious that he wasn’t entirely sure.

“It’s annoying,” his Master said, putting his hand on the table just above Legato’s untouched salad fork. Legato felt both confused and as if he really ought to know what was going on. He moved his eyes upward, but the cover of his hair completely blocked out Knives’s face.

“I apologize,” he said solemnly.

“Don’t apologize!” Knives told him, though he didn’t sound angry; maybe only slightly amused. “Stop it, fix it, don’t be annoying.” He explained it as if it was even that simple to understand what he was talking about. Legato’s Master leaned slightly into the arm he rested on the table, shifting his weight. His clothing shifted, pulling oddly away from his right shoulder and tight on his left shoulder. The skin that showed was so pale it was almost bright; it made Legato’s breath catch in his throat and flutter like a trapped insect.

“There, that,” his Master said. “Stop that.” Color drained out of Legato’s face. He felt shamed, horribly shamed.

“It’s distracting.” Knives leaned down to almost look him in the eye. He was so close, so close Legato could smell the bouquet of the wine they’d drunk on his Master’s breath.

“It’s a trained response to most common intoxicants.” The whole sentence came out much faster than such multisyllabic words should.

“Then fix it,” he said, as if it were that easy. A thought slunk out of the dark curls of Legato’s mind swinging its hips and suggested a few ‘fixes’ that made Legato wince with shame.

“Fix it,” his Master demanded with an edge to his voice. Now he was getting angry. “I don’t want you ruining the atmosphere.”

With three gasping, terrified breaths in and out, Legato’s fingers seemed to regain enough dexterity to unbutton his fly. The sound of his zipper coming apart tooth by tooth seemed to echo in the room, or at least inside his skull\

“What are you doing?” Knives asked, not with anger or revulsion, but open curiosity. That was probably worse. Legato’s fingers reached the wet tip of his erection and his body automatically ground a whimper out of his throat.

He shouldn’t need this. He shouldn’t. He was aroused at times, but he told himself it was only a trained response and it went away without much mental force. He didn’t need this sort of thing to keep attention. His powers alone were enough now.

But his body’s nerves sizzled with pleasure, he enjoyed this. He’d never wished for a swift death more than he did at that moment. He shut his eyes so tight it pulled the muscles of his face painfully. He bite his lip until the weak taste of blood mixed with grease and wine in his mouth.

“Open you eyes,” came the command. He opened them without a thought, but saw nothing, his hair too thick to see through. His Master’s gloved right hand pushed his hair up and back, out of his eyes. He was being scrutinized.

“Your pupils are very large,” Knives observed. “Is this normal?” Legato nearly choked on the affirmative. The cool touch of whatever synthetic fabric his Master’s clothing was made of made his pulse race and his body squirmed and moaned on instinct. His legs opened wider and his hips lifted for nothing.

“What are you doing?” He asked a clinical whisper so close to Legato’s face the breath of it cooled the sweat that was gathering on the bridge of his nose.

But he was beyond the point of being able to coherently speak, his vocabulary reduced to groans and whines at the mechanical motions of his hand. Finally his hips bucked a few times and ejaculate covered his hand and stained his pants and the bottom edge of his shirt. It took a few deep inhalations and the conscious effort to ignore residual body shakes, but finally Legato gasped out.

“I apologize.”

He would have hung his head, but it was pressed back in place by the hand the held his hair.

“You need to leave,” his Master whispered in that same voice. It made his greater muscles shake. “Now.” The hand in his hair pulled away. Legato Bluesummers stood, commanding his legs to bear his weight.

He fled as calmly and respectfully as he could.


When his feet suddenly froze to the floor his knees nearly hyper extended with the force of his own momentum. The nerves in his knee caps buzzed from the strain and his lower brain functions sent a shot of adrenaline into his blood that made him nearly hyperventilate.

There was no point in struggling. He went still and let his legs relax into the position his ankles were being held in.

“You should have left faster,” his Master said inside his head. It wasn’t a malicious threat, but all the more hateful in the exasperated tone that implied his personal failings.

“Yes, Master.” Legato Bluesummers’s hair falls over his eyes and his hands tap against his thighs, cold but still.

“Now I don’t want you to leave,” he laughs. “I don’t even know why.

“I don’t imagine you can explain this,” Knives sneers, such disdain in this voice that Legato can visualize the curl of his lips pulling away from his teeth. “Your explinations so far tonight have proved to be highly substandard.”

The shame is never going to burn out Legato’s body no matter how close his blood comes to the skin of his face, no matter how hot and uncomfortable he becomes. Something horrible will happen now; it is not even a matter of knowing.

“Come over here,” his Master commands. With even steps and bowed head, Legato obeys. There is not even an element of choice or doubt when it is so obvious that Knives means that he says, there is simply no room in the sound of his voice for petty things like that.

He grabs Legato’s shoulder so hard that short clipped nails can be felt through gloves and clothing. It doesn’t hurt though. It doesn’t even raise Legato’s pulse higher than it already is. It isn’t even shocking or unusual - that is, being touched, when his Master is displeased he tends to rise above his personal distastes.

“You disgust me,” rings inside Legato’s head. This was to be expected.

“So why do I want to touch you,” He demands. It rattles sharply in the bones of Legato’s ears. A real voice, close and requiring hot breath still rich in acidic spices. His heartbeat rises to the point that it might hurt him if he does not calm his body down immediately. He takes a deep breath through his nose, but he cannot exhale.

“What is happening,” Knives voice cracks on the last word. His gloved hand reaches from Legato’s shoulder and quickly grabs him around the neck. His body moves easily without his permission, his muscles loose and unprepared to resist overwhelming physical force.

The table is polished to a point of almost awe inspiring slickness that his upper body slides along until his hipbones catch on the edge and he can go no further. Still he’s being shoved forward, enough to put a sharp pain on his pelvis. The hand around his neck rests mostly against the back with a thumb curled dangerously in the direction of his windpipe. That is unnecessary though, because he is not breathing regularly on his own.

Amazingly, though his body is full of shivers and cold sweats and racing hearts, his mind stays calm and blank. His mind is empty as it ever gets and rejecting even the survival instincts of his terrified physical existence. He is not precognitive, but he could have foretold this. In a moment his neck or back with snap and his brain will become disconnected from his vital organs. It might take a moment and it might be painful, but it is inescapable.

When he opens his eyes on of them sees only the blurred darkness of the blood colored table, but the other can see into the pool of juices left at the bottom of the platter. The smell fills his nostrils when he remembers to breathe and it slows his heartbeat.

Hope returns that he might die with dignity. He realizes he has missed whatever his Master has been speaking about for the passing time.

“- to understand!” echoes through the room. The corners of his Master’s hipbones almost make a sound running into the bottom edge of his pelvis the way they do. Suddenly his body struggles from the panic and confusion. His wrists pull against chains that aren’t there and his toes curl for purchase in his boots. His cries are literally strangled out.

“Why are you squirming?” his Master asks, for once inflecting the question properly as such.

The thought of what is happening, the reality of the erection ground against his tailbone hits him about the same moment as the pain of his own returning arousal does. It feels thought, as if he is only responding to the force, only another reflex: to become aroused under duress.

His Master’s next thrust pulls on the back waistband of his pants and the inner seam is pulled painfully close to his body. He cries out in pain without even thinking about what he’s doing. Knives laughs.

Legato’s hands are cold from lack of circulation and they are shivering so hard he can barely take grip but his grabs his pants by the waist and pulls them down as far as he can reach from such an awkward angle against the table. Knives does not laugh, his thrusts forced to change position he gasps suddenly short of breath. He grabs Legato by the back his palms and holds his hands against the table.

“What do you think you’re doing,” He demands, obviously short of breath.

“It would be better if you simply penetrated me,” Legato explains. His words are oddly calm and clinical for the breathiness and fear that fills it.

“And why should I listen to you.” But still Legato heard the snap of buckles and the grate of zipper teeth coming apart.

“You shouldn’t, Master,” he whimpered. It was a moment of clarity and now his voice, like his body was outside his control.

Possibly, if he’d focused very hard right then- but alcohol still fogged his mind with dehydration. He was weak, anyways. Too weak to resist this. Completely uninterested in stopping this. Whatever it was.

In terms of a hundred different things, this was just like a large chunk of his memories. But his cheek rests against the smooth polish of the table. He was barely being touched. Now only his Master’s glove forced his two hands together pinching the metacarpals. There was a periodic scrape of loosened clothing along his back, but that was all. Just thinking about it made him feel oddly lose. And in need of restraint. It would have been - easier if there were chains and shackles and spreaders.

But the fact that he held his ankles as far apart as they would reach on his own said things about Legato Bluesummers that he was not prepared to consider. He may have enjoyed this and that disgusted him on principle. Yet, this was.

This was his Master’s gloved hand. The barely there heat coming down against his backwais what the rays of the suns ought to be. The blunt pressure that made him wince and shiver. There were no words for that.

Knives made some sound caught somewhere between anger and sobbing. Caught in the moment, in his own thought processes, Legato automatically moved back. It was a burning stretching pain that should not, should not ever have been pleasurable. He shivered because it is, or because that terrifieed him.

“What.” His Master gasped between guttural sounds. “Are you doing.”

At this point he had no idea either. His Master was angry. Angry and confused and frustrated. Legato understood that he moved faster because pleasure is something easily understood.

Legato Bluesummers knew that physical pleasure was the easiest vice, the easiest trap that mankind fell into.

His Master’s bare hand dug into his hair, possibly unrooting some of the looser strands. He pressed on the side of Legato’s head for leverage. Legato’s ear was crushed between his face and the table untill it lost feeling. But the heat that went into his scalp made him shiver with pleasure. His shivers made his Master moan which in turn made him moan.

And shiver again when that hand tightened, pulling his hair a little harder.

There were a few moments in Legato’s life that could have gone on forever. Nursing from his mother. His first good meal. The destruction of that city. That blade against his neck.

This. This could go on forever. He would have been happy.

His legs shook and his hips were screaming with the pressure of his posture and the hardness of the edge of the table. He’d achieved orgasm once already, the fact that he should be so close so soon was simply a sign of life’s cruelty. It reached him again, this time as painful and confusing release as the entire experience had been. It left his mind blank and buzzing; a faint upturn on his lips. It had been satisfying, which was shocking and new and a difficult emotion to absorb.

Knives withdrew himself and Legato heard him stagger backwards. Nothing cool or liquid ran down his thighs. He blinked in confusion.

Oh. Yes. His Master was not human. It made the slight upturn in Legato’s mouth disappear. He opened his eyes, unaware that he’d closed them, and saw into the grease swirling in the platter. That was human. Legato feelt slight sick, but very, very satisfied.

“I do not understand you,” his Master said behind him. Legato stood and pulled his clothing back together with the efficient motions of the whore he wasn’t anymore.

“This will never happen again.”

“Yes, Master.”

Ironically he was not asked to leave.

... I enjoyed writing this more than I should have. Remind me to someday tell you all my "alternate" titles for the parts.