Honey Pot - Daken - NC-17
Title: Honey Pot
Rating: NC-17
Fandom; Pairing: Marvel; Daken/OMC
Word Count: 2077
Disclaimer: Full disclaimer in my profile. I don't own the story or characters. They belong to Marvel Comics.
Summary: Daken takes a job of seduction for X-Force (in an AU where he's part of X-Force, because I love me some family adventures), mostly just to make Scott want to die, but maybe he also has family-friendly motives. There's some level of affection, at least, between Daken and Laura and Logan. In a weird way.
Note/Warnings: The sex Daken has with the OMC is supposed to be just ugly and awful. This is not a sexy fic. Obviously, there will be violence.
“This isn’t a job I want to be offering to anyone,” Cyclops says. Daken can smell the discomfort on him and has to dig his fingers into his thighs just to resist playing it up.
“We know what a threat Johannes White is,” Summers says. He sighs slightly.
Daken reflects. Yes, the things he’s said about castrating male mutants, in particular, were quite disturbing. Daken knows he would be fine, but that doesn’t mean it’s any fun to lose his favorite parts, however temporary.
Their fearless leader clenches his jaw in a particular way and, without thinking, Daken stokes the fire of his anger.
“The bastard,” Cyclops grits out. He apologizes.
“The target calls in for, ah,” Summers pauses and discomfort overtakes anger despite Daken’s meddling.
“Company,” Summers says, euphemistically. “On a weekly basis. His choice in… company is almost entirely depowered mutants. Men or women, he doesn’t seem to care, so long as they’re one of us.”
Daken does not really think of anyone as being like himself, but it still makes me frown. Hypocrisy is so… tacky. If only that kind of worm could live with its own need to put it in freaks, he wouldn’t be planning to genetically carpet bomb humanity as a whole in an attempt to neuter the X-gene.
“Given your,” Summer pauses again. “Experience. I thought to offer both of you the-”
“I’ll take it,” X-23 says. Her voice is deadpan and empty. Her mask hides her eyes. Daken snorts derisively as a way to hide the way he tastes the air around her. She would rather slice open her skin and crawl out of it than touch someone she had to kill in a sexual manner, or let the target touch her.
“And who says I’ll let you?” he snaps. “If anyone here has experience making snuff films with targets, it’s me. A couple masochists while you’re turning cheap tricks doesn’t make you a honey pot, Laura, baby, don’t be so egotistical.”
She scowls at him, but it doesn’t hide her relief.
“I would be happy,” Daken purrs. “To take Johannes out for you.”
He likes the way Summers flusters, the way blood rushes into his face. Violence doesn’t bother these people, but sex scares the hell out of them. Combining the two seems almost alien and, for X-23, it seems to be a particular problem. He’ll keep it in mind. Until then, though, he needs to go get gussied up for Mr. White: politician, cult religious leader, and, of course, hypocritical bastard.
A target really isn’t worth the clothes he reserves for when he wants to have a little fun for himself, but a cheap thong, a tight pair of jeans, and a simple button up and vest look good with a smile. He makes sure to brush his teeth and rinse his mouth out, tossing a travel size bottle of mouthwash into his bag as a second thought. He shaves his face and the sides of his head with the same electric razor and sprays on the cologne that amplifies his pheromones rather than the one that mutes them. That bottle, the blue one, is barely touched. He’s running out of the amplifier, though, so he’ll have to see McCoy about that in the next few weeks.
He slips on a fedora and slings his little bag of tricks over one shoulder.
“Hi,” he says, approaching the boy in the lobby. He’s got the cellphone with which he listened in on White’s discussion with the escort agency in his pocket.
“H-hi,” the boy replies. He’s skinny, underfed, with the smell of amphetamines on him. Probably used to be a speedster, by the body type, and now that things have slowed down he’s using chemicals to speed them back up. Fucking politicians with a kink for former mutants pays the dealer’s tab.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Daken asks.
“I’m working,” the boy insists. He tries to move towards the elevator.
“I insist,” Daken says, putting himself between the boy and his escape route. He touches the boy lightly on the side, just above the hip. The boy’s lips, of all things, flush darker and Daken hears his heart rate pick up into the excited range.
A little bit of GHB and a pair of handcuffs later and the boy is locked in the second stall of the men’s restroom. Daken’s not cruel enough to leave him vulnerable, but he might not remember to come back and let the kid out of the cuffs. He’ll get out somehow, though, probably.
Daken pockets the electronic key card that was in the kid’s sweaty hand and heads up the elevator.
“You’re late,” Johannes says. He’s a skinny man, with sharp features and deep wrinkles. He dyes his hair to a reddish light brown, but keeps his temples white. He’s pinched and birdlike, more than middle-aged, paunched despite being thin in the limbs. Daken doesn’t let his distaste show too strongly.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he purrs.
White frowns.
“You look familiar,” he says. His voice is rough with fresh cigarette smoke. Daken’s nose itches.
“I used to be an Avenger,” Daken tells him. The man absolutely lights up.
“Really now,” he says. “You’re not yanking my chain, now, are you?”
“Scouts honor,” Daken says, grinning and throwing up some number of fingers. He can smell the worm growing aroused just from the fact that Daken used to fuck around with Norman Osborn. There’s pathetic, he thinks, and then there is Johannes White.
He can’t believe what he’s about to do. If only his powers could let him sit in the corner of the room by the potted plant and just toy with White from a distance. But, no, he’s actually going to have to touch him. White tugs at his tie.
“Strip,” he says. Daken smirks and starts slowly unbuttoning his vest. He pulls it off one arm at a time and then tosses it aside. Then comes his belt, with the heavy buckle, a weapon in its own right. He slide it off as smoothly as anything, pulling his shirt out from the low waist band of his jeans with a single tug. Johannes catches a flash of the skin of his pelvis and licks his lips. Daken tilts his head and parts his lips deliberately. He unbuttons his shirt from the bottom up, then, revealing the trim, intentional line of hair that peaks out of his jeans, then his abs, then his chest, then his collarbone.
“You’re in excellent shape,” Johannes says. “You must work out.”
“Oh yeah,” Daken replies. “All the time.”
He pushes his shirt away from his shoulders and lets it fall.
“You have a tattoo,” White says. He’s frowning. Daken laughs.
“Foolish youthful decisions,” he says. “You know how those are?”
He steps into White’s personal space and touches his belt buckle. “Right?”
White swallows. “Right, right, of course.”
He is proud of his tattoo, of the pain and maintenance it requires. It takes a special ink and it took a long, long time before he found it. He flexes his arm muscles and juts his hip to one side.
White gets him down to his thong before he expects a kiss. It tastes like Camels-stale ones at that. Daken is glad he brought mouthwash.
He undoes the worm’s belt and fly with his mouth and goes right to deepthroating so as to avoid the taste of a steak-and-potatoes man’s precum. Swallowing is never fun, but he can smell the man’s sweat and knows that his jizz tastes rather like a tablespoon of kerosene. Daken fakes a lot of moans and focuses on the fact that he can smell the man’s weak blood under his skin to get himself hard.
White touches him, wants to touch him. His soft, sweaty, bony hands grab at Daken’s thighs, his semi-hard cock, his ass. Dry fingers try to press into him and he moans for it.
The worm is about to give him an opening. Daken can smell it in the air, knows that he’s pushing for it. If he pushed a little harder, White would probably cum across the hotel comforter. Daken can faintly smell all the different men and women who have fucked and sweated and oozed on these sheets. At least he can also smell the detergent the hotel uses. They try, at least.
“Show me your powers,” White begs. He’s touching himself with one hand and pawing at Daken’s cock with the other.
“I’d be happy too,” Daken purrs.
He caresses the man’s sharp chin and touches the sagging skin of his jaw. He relishes the smooth way his claws move through his fore arm and part the bones of his hand to pierce the skin between his knuckles. They enter White’s throat and then retract. Hot blood pours down over Daken’s body. It hits him, thick, body-hot, and dark. White doesn’t have time to gasp or even gurgle. Ineffective hands try to staunch the bleeding and then go limp.
The bed is soaked in seconds because of arterial pressure. Physics can be sexy, Daken thinks and for a moment he lays there and appreciates the way the overwhelming scent of blood makes his cock throb. Without any other stimulation, though, he eventually goes soft and the blood goes cold and tacky. Time to shower off and rinse his mouth out in the sink. Then there’s that handy little gun to zap the room with and denature his DNA so badly they couldn’t take a blood type off the soaked mattress.
Daken still can’t believe they let him have such a neat little toy. He could be a serial killer in his spare time with this thing. He isn’t, but he could be and X-Force just trusts that he won’t.
After he’s left the hotel, his mouth tasting like alcohol and mint, he doesn’t think about the mission anymore. He debriefs personally with Summers and makes it as lascivious as possible with lots of exaggerated details about White’s cock against the back of his throat, and that’s the end of that.
Until Logan finds out, and then Daken feels sorry that he ever thought to spare X some indignity.
“I thought you were done with all that,” Daddy dearest says.
“Done with all what?” he asks. Yep, Laura is going to be having sexy dreams about chainsaws for the next month. He’ll make it happen.
“Don’t mess around here, kid, you know what I mean,” Logan snarls.
“It was the mission,” Daken says. “You’d prefer to have done it yourself?”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t go running back to cheap, sadistic fucks,” Logan says. “X-Force is…”
“A fresh start,” Daken says. The words are old and losing their edge now.
“No,” Logan snaps at him. He bristles.
“X-Force is a way for us to do what we do,” Logan tells him. “Without letting it define us.”
“You don’t think you’re defined by all this!” Daken snaps back. “Mr. I’m the best at what I do!”
“I am,” Logan says. “The best at what I do. And what I do is be a goddamn hero.”
Daken growls.
“I don’t care what you did in Europe,” Logan says, with a certain sort of disdain for the entire continent in his voice. “Or for Osborn. You’re not X-Force’s whore.”
“And X is?” Daken drawls, thinking he’s making a calculated strike.
“She’s not either,” Logan points out. “Dom could have handled that mission without having to take off a stitch.”
Daken frowns hard.
“I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but…” Logan looks at him hard. Suddenly he takes off his mask and cowl, becoming, suddenly, a short, grizzled old man that Daken has a much harder time hating.
“Son,” Logan begins. Daken rolls his eyes and sighs.
“You don’t have to… touch anyone you don’t want to,” Logan. “Not for the mission, not to get what you want, not for anything.”
“Oh my god,” Daken says. “I can’t believe this conversation is happening.”
“I didn’t think you still had such a problem with personal boundaries,” Logan says. “Then Scott tells me that, well… You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
“It was the mission,” Daken says. “I don’t care.”
“Have it your way,” Logan says with a shrug.
There’s a pause and Daken shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“I would have bit him,” Logan says.
“Ew,” Daken replies. “Conversation over.”
Rating: NC-17
Fandom; Pairing: Marvel; Daken/OMC
Word Count: 2077
Disclaimer: Full disclaimer in my profile. I don't own the story or characters. They belong to Marvel Comics.
Summary: Daken takes a job of seduction for X-Force (in an AU where he's part of X-Force, because I love me some family adventures), mostly just to make Scott want to die, but maybe he also has family-friendly motives. There's some level of affection, at least, between Daken and Laura and Logan. In a weird way.
Note/Warnings: The sex Daken has with the OMC is supposed to be just ugly and awful. This is not a sexy fic. Obviously, there will be violence.
“This isn’t a job I want to be offering to anyone,” Cyclops says. Daken can smell the discomfort on him and has to dig his fingers into his thighs just to resist playing it up.
“We know what a threat Johannes White is,” Summers says. He sighs slightly.
Daken reflects. Yes, the things he’s said about castrating male mutants, in particular, were quite disturbing. Daken knows he would be fine, but that doesn’t mean it’s any fun to lose his favorite parts, however temporary.
Their fearless leader clenches his jaw in a particular way and, without thinking, Daken stokes the fire of his anger.
“The bastard,” Cyclops grits out. He apologizes.
“The target calls in for, ah,” Summers pauses and discomfort overtakes anger despite Daken’s meddling.
“Company,” Summers says, euphemistically. “On a weekly basis. His choice in… company is almost entirely depowered mutants. Men or women, he doesn’t seem to care, so long as they’re one of us.”
Daken does not really think of anyone as being like himself, but it still makes me frown. Hypocrisy is so… tacky. If only that kind of worm could live with its own need to put it in freaks, he wouldn’t be planning to genetically carpet bomb humanity as a whole in an attempt to neuter the X-gene.
“Given your,” Summer pauses again. “Experience. I thought to offer both of you the-”
“I’ll take it,” X-23 says. Her voice is deadpan and empty. Her mask hides her eyes. Daken snorts derisively as a way to hide the way he tastes the air around her. She would rather slice open her skin and crawl out of it than touch someone she had to kill in a sexual manner, or let the target touch her.
“And who says I’ll let you?” he snaps. “If anyone here has experience making snuff films with targets, it’s me. A couple masochists while you’re turning cheap tricks doesn’t make you a honey pot, Laura, baby, don’t be so egotistical.”
She scowls at him, but it doesn’t hide her relief.
“I would be happy,” Daken purrs. “To take Johannes out for you.”
He likes the way Summers flusters, the way blood rushes into his face. Violence doesn’t bother these people, but sex scares the hell out of them. Combining the two seems almost alien and, for X-23, it seems to be a particular problem. He’ll keep it in mind. Until then, though, he needs to go get gussied up for Mr. White: politician, cult religious leader, and, of course, hypocritical bastard.
A target really isn’t worth the clothes he reserves for when he wants to have a little fun for himself, but a cheap thong, a tight pair of jeans, and a simple button up and vest look good with a smile. He makes sure to brush his teeth and rinse his mouth out, tossing a travel size bottle of mouthwash into his bag as a second thought. He shaves his face and the sides of his head with the same electric razor and sprays on the cologne that amplifies his pheromones rather than the one that mutes them. That bottle, the blue one, is barely touched. He’s running out of the amplifier, though, so he’ll have to see McCoy about that in the next few weeks.
He slips on a fedora and slings his little bag of tricks over one shoulder.
“Hi,” he says, approaching the boy in the lobby. He’s got the cellphone with which he listened in on White’s discussion with the escort agency in his pocket.
“H-hi,” the boy replies. He’s skinny, underfed, with the smell of amphetamines on him. Probably used to be a speedster, by the body type, and now that things have slowed down he’s using chemicals to speed them back up. Fucking politicians with a kink for former mutants pays the dealer’s tab.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Daken asks.
“I’m working,” the boy insists. He tries to move towards the elevator.
“I insist,” Daken says, putting himself between the boy and his escape route. He touches the boy lightly on the side, just above the hip. The boy’s lips, of all things, flush darker and Daken hears his heart rate pick up into the excited range.
A little bit of GHB and a pair of handcuffs later and the boy is locked in the second stall of the men’s restroom. Daken’s not cruel enough to leave him vulnerable, but he might not remember to come back and let the kid out of the cuffs. He’ll get out somehow, though, probably.
Daken pockets the electronic key card that was in the kid’s sweaty hand and heads up the elevator.
“You’re late,” Johannes says. He’s a skinny man, with sharp features and deep wrinkles. He dyes his hair to a reddish light brown, but keeps his temples white. He’s pinched and birdlike, more than middle-aged, paunched despite being thin in the limbs. Daken doesn’t let his distaste show too strongly.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he purrs.
White frowns.
“You look familiar,” he says. His voice is rough with fresh cigarette smoke. Daken’s nose itches.
“I used to be an Avenger,” Daken tells him. The man absolutely lights up.
“Really now,” he says. “You’re not yanking my chain, now, are you?”
“Scouts honor,” Daken says, grinning and throwing up some number of fingers. He can smell the worm growing aroused just from the fact that Daken used to fuck around with Norman Osborn. There’s pathetic, he thinks, and then there is Johannes White.
He can’t believe what he’s about to do. If only his powers could let him sit in the corner of the room by the potted plant and just toy with White from a distance. But, no, he’s actually going to have to touch him. White tugs at his tie.
“Strip,” he says. Daken smirks and starts slowly unbuttoning his vest. He pulls it off one arm at a time and then tosses it aside. Then comes his belt, with the heavy buckle, a weapon in its own right. He slide it off as smoothly as anything, pulling his shirt out from the low waist band of his jeans with a single tug. Johannes catches a flash of the skin of his pelvis and licks his lips. Daken tilts his head and parts his lips deliberately. He unbuttons his shirt from the bottom up, then, revealing the trim, intentional line of hair that peaks out of his jeans, then his abs, then his chest, then his collarbone.
“You’re in excellent shape,” Johannes says. “You must work out.”
“Oh yeah,” Daken replies. “All the time.”
He pushes his shirt away from his shoulders and lets it fall.
“You have a tattoo,” White says. He’s frowning. Daken laughs.
“Foolish youthful decisions,” he says. “You know how those are?”
He steps into White’s personal space and touches his belt buckle. “Right?”
White swallows. “Right, right, of course.”
He is proud of his tattoo, of the pain and maintenance it requires. It takes a special ink and it took a long, long time before he found it. He flexes his arm muscles and juts his hip to one side.
White gets him down to his thong before he expects a kiss. It tastes like Camels-stale ones at that. Daken is glad he brought mouthwash.
He undoes the worm’s belt and fly with his mouth and goes right to deepthroating so as to avoid the taste of a steak-and-potatoes man’s precum. Swallowing is never fun, but he can smell the man’s sweat and knows that his jizz tastes rather like a tablespoon of kerosene. Daken fakes a lot of moans and focuses on the fact that he can smell the man’s weak blood under his skin to get himself hard.
White touches him, wants to touch him. His soft, sweaty, bony hands grab at Daken’s thighs, his semi-hard cock, his ass. Dry fingers try to press into him and he moans for it.
The worm is about to give him an opening. Daken can smell it in the air, knows that he’s pushing for it. If he pushed a little harder, White would probably cum across the hotel comforter. Daken can faintly smell all the different men and women who have fucked and sweated and oozed on these sheets. At least he can also smell the detergent the hotel uses. They try, at least.
“Show me your powers,” White begs. He’s touching himself with one hand and pawing at Daken’s cock with the other.
“I’d be happy too,” Daken purrs.
He caresses the man’s sharp chin and touches the sagging skin of his jaw. He relishes the smooth way his claws move through his fore arm and part the bones of his hand to pierce the skin between his knuckles. They enter White’s throat and then retract. Hot blood pours down over Daken’s body. It hits him, thick, body-hot, and dark. White doesn’t have time to gasp or even gurgle. Ineffective hands try to staunch the bleeding and then go limp.
The bed is soaked in seconds because of arterial pressure. Physics can be sexy, Daken thinks and for a moment he lays there and appreciates the way the overwhelming scent of blood makes his cock throb. Without any other stimulation, though, he eventually goes soft and the blood goes cold and tacky. Time to shower off and rinse his mouth out in the sink. Then there’s that handy little gun to zap the room with and denature his DNA so badly they couldn’t take a blood type off the soaked mattress.
Daken still can’t believe they let him have such a neat little toy. He could be a serial killer in his spare time with this thing. He isn’t, but he could be and X-Force just trusts that he won’t.
After he’s left the hotel, his mouth tasting like alcohol and mint, he doesn’t think about the mission anymore. He debriefs personally with Summers and makes it as lascivious as possible with lots of exaggerated details about White’s cock against the back of his throat, and that’s the end of that.
Until Logan finds out, and then Daken feels sorry that he ever thought to spare X some indignity.
“I thought you were done with all that,” Daddy dearest says.
“Done with all what?” he asks. Yep, Laura is going to be having sexy dreams about chainsaws for the next month. He’ll make it happen.
“Don’t mess around here, kid, you know what I mean,” Logan snarls.
“It was the mission,” Daken says. “You’d prefer to have done it yourself?”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t go running back to cheap, sadistic fucks,” Logan says. “X-Force is…”
“A fresh start,” Daken says. The words are old and losing their edge now.
“No,” Logan snaps at him. He bristles.
“X-Force is a way for us to do what we do,” Logan tells him. “Without letting it define us.”
“You don’t think you’re defined by all this!” Daken snaps back. “Mr. I’m the best at what I do!”
“I am,” Logan says. “The best at what I do. And what I do is be a goddamn hero.”
Daken growls.
“I don’t care what you did in Europe,” Logan says, with a certain sort of disdain for the entire continent in his voice. “Or for Osborn. You’re not X-Force’s whore.”
“And X is?” Daken drawls, thinking he’s making a calculated strike.
“She’s not either,” Logan points out. “Dom could have handled that mission without having to take off a stitch.”
Daken frowns hard.
“I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but…” Logan looks at him hard. Suddenly he takes off his mask and cowl, becoming, suddenly, a short, grizzled old man that Daken has a much harder time hating.
“Son,” Logan begins. Daken rolls his eyes and sighs.
“You don’t have to… touch anyone you don’t want to,” Logan. “Not for the mission, not to get what you want, not for anything.”
“Oh my god,” Daken says. “I can’t believe this conversation is happening.”
“I didn’t think you still had such a problem with personal boundaries,” Logan says. “Then Scott tells me that, well… You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
“It was the mission,” Daken says. “I don’t care.”
“Have it your way,” Logan says with a shrug.
There’s a pause and Daken shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“I would have bit him,” Logan says.
“Ew,” Daken replies. “Conversation over.”