Over the Edge
For the PW Kink meme! ^.^
Hawt Gavincest with suggestions of Kristoph/Phoenix. I'm working my way up to writing a full on KP fic, as they are now a tie for my favourite pairing. Very NC-17.
You never should have lied to him about the broken mirror. It was a stupid, rookie mistake, letting him catch you in it like that. You thought he would believe you. He always had, without question. How could he have possibly known?
---
The shiny handcuffs bite into your wrists. It hurts, and you cling to the pain. It keeps you still. It keeps you calm. You dig your fingernails into your palms and feel the scar stretch. This is who you are, this, perfect nails and imperfect skin, an angel and a devil rolled into one wonderfully flawed package. You hadn’t screamed then, and you will not now.
You will not.
Something moves across your naked flesh, feather-soft and ticklish. It trails over your face, your throat, your chest. You can feel every single silky strand, the electric pull of a body near enough to touch, the faint heat of breath. They say your senses get stronger when one is taken away, and he’s taken all of them from you with cotton and rubber and foam. All but one.
He touches you, warm and solid and shocking, skin on skin. His hand just barely brushes by your thigh but it’s as if he set you on fire. Your body reacts before your brain, pushing your hips up and forcing a groan through your teeth. You can’t hear him laugh, but you can feel it, little puffs of air against your stomach. Half of you is angry, embarrassed, ashamed. The other half... well, It doesn’t really care.
Something hot and rough and wet slides over your skin leaving a cold trail in it’s wake. Teeth scrape over your skin, lips soft and smooth as velvet. The soft silky somethings move over your skin along with it, a slow circle of sensation determined to touch every last inch of you. It takes everything you have not to let go and give him what he wants, what he needs.
What you need.
You feel him smile against your skin. He mouths words you can neither hear nor care about, not when you can feel the smooth rumble of his voice, the pull of his lips, the dart of his tongue. The bed shifts, and something brushes across your face, smelling of leather and sweat. Fingers ghost over the shell of your ear, and he gently pulls the earplugs out.
---
You never should have done it in the first place. It wasn’t like you needed the release. You had always been above that kind of vulgar thing. You just let your boredom and your curiosity get a hold of you. And besides, it was kind of fun.
---
He whispers to you, his famous voice husky and low. The words aren’t important. It’s the sound of it, echoing through your head. You never understood the appeal of his music, not really, but if he ever sang like this, half groan and half growl, you would buy every album you could find, if only to keep anyone else from hearing it. This belongs to you.
“Mein Gott, Kristoph, you’re such a fucking slut.” He runs his tongue over your stomach, dipping into your belly button and making you jump. “All these years I’ve been trying to make you happy, make you love me, make you want me, and all along, all I had to do was tie you up and take it. You should have screwed that shmuck ages ago, saved me some time.”
He works his way up your chest, slurping and sucking, obscene. It feels like something out of a bad porno, the kind Klavier was always ‘accidently’ leaving in the player, with wanton moaning women and faceless thrusting cocks on legs. The comparison bothers you just enough to keep you sane. He bites your nipple and pulls it into his mouth, releasing it with a pop.
“I always thought you were so fucking perfect. You never, ever lost control. And then I saw you with him. Watching him pounding into you, seeing that look on your face...” Teeth scrape against your earlobe, tongue flicking into the canal. “Beautiful. Completely fucking beautiful. It was like looking at God, bruder, it really was. God with a leaking cock and a dick in his ass.”
His lips drift over your face. His tongue traces along the strap of the gag. He nips your lip just hard enough to hurt, his hands slowly smoothing their way up your face. Fingers slip slowly under your blindfold and he pulls it up and off.
Now you can see everything.
¬¬---
You never should have let him talk you into the beer. You had a hundred different excuses, cases, reasons. You should have just sent him home and gone to bed like any other night. But you just couldn’t find your way behind that lopsided smile, and it bothered you.
---
He’s glorious. You’ve seen him like this before, in theory, after a concert with his hair unravelling, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. You’ve seen him with women hanging off his arms, men, showing off and looking for the spark of jealousy you’d never let him see. You’ve even seen him on his back in a lake of gold, eyelids drawn and lips bruised from kisses, your kisses.
But you’ve never, ever seen him quite like this.
Over top of you. Looking down and leering at you like you’re his favourite meal, red tongue rolling over his smiling lips. His blue eyes burn. He’s never looked so powerful, so in control. You had no idea he could be so... so this. And more importantly, you never knew you would like being looked at so very, very much.
“Kristoph...” You watch your name whisper past his lips, see them tremble just that little bit. “Fuck, Kristoph, I want you so bad. I know I shouldn’t, but... Mein Gott, seeing you with him, your face in the mirror, I...” He lowers his forehead to yours, and you can see his naked chest heaving with every panting breath. “I’ve never wanted anything so much in my entire life.”
He kisses you, pauses, runs his tongue along the rubber ball. He pulls back and smiles at you, and for the first time you realize he’s nervous. His stomach flutters and he swallows hard, leaning forward to kiss your neck while his quick fingers unhook the gag. Half of you wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The other half can’t remember how.
He pulls the gag off, and even though your jaw aches from it you can’t bring yourself to give a damn. Your little brother, your Liebe, is looking down at you unsure and afraid and trying so hard to hide it. It’s so like him, smiles and bluster on the outside while on the inside he’s all doubt. And as always, your there to show him that it’s all ok.
He tastes like strawberries.
---
You never should have let him in the door. You were ‘friends’, yes, but that was outside, in the world. This was your home. There were things there, everywhere, that could have tipped him off and sent your whole life slipping sideways. A suspicion was better than a certainty. He just looked so incredibly... Lonely.
---
He reacts instantly. His hands cup your face, lips crushing against yours hard enough to hurt. You go with it, letting things accelerate. You have no objections, not now with his tongue down your throat. You feel him press hard against your thigh and push back, tasting his moan in your mouth. Suddenly he pulls his hands away, shifts position, pushing your legs apart and settling between them.
“Tell me you want it.” He hisses, pressing hard kisses against your shoulder, half bite. “Tell me you want me, my cock inside you, fucking you into the mattress. Tell me I’m the one you want. I’m the only one you want. The only one you’ve ever wanted. Say it, bruder. Say it!”
And so you do.
“Mein Gott, Klavier, wünsche ich es. Ich wünsche Sie!”
You feel him tremble, sob into your skin, watch the tension and the fear melt out of him. He moans and presses into you, just like that, no preparation, thoughtless and careless and so much like him you can almost, almost forgive him for the pain. You swear at him in every language you know, and you’d think he’d get the hint but he doesn’t, just pushes deeper.
His hips jerk forward and suddenly he’s all the way inside, and it’s everything you can do to keep from screaming. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, tripping over himself to apologize and kissing you over and over but he doesn’t stop. You think maybe he can’t, because even though it hurts like hell you’re still hard against his stomach, and that’s all he feels.
He fucks you, just like he said he would, and eventually the pain starts to fade. He drives into you over and over and over until you feel like he’s crushed you into a bloody breathless pulp, knees pushed up around your ears. And then you watch him come, shouting your name into the flesh of your thigh and leaving a mark in blood and bruises, and behind your eyes you see a broken, lonely smile.
After, when you can see straight again, his head resting on your heaving chest, you can still feel that mark like the one on your hand. It becomes part of you, part of who you are. You smile. He catches you and smiles back.
He takes the handcuffs off and kisses you better.
---
You should have run the moment you realized you actually cared.
---
Phoenix doesn’t look up until you slip onto the bench beside him, fingering the familiar keys along with his broken tune. He doesn’t stop playing, and he doesn’t ask you why you’ve come, and you thank him for that. He always somehow knows what you want him to say, even when you don’t.
He pulls a roll of bills out of the pocket of his tattered hoodie and presses them into your palm.
“For the mirror.”
You smile. The money disappears into your jacket.
You sit for a while, playing a duet neither of you knows. It’s strange and ugly and out of sync, and somehow you can’t help but like it. If the two of you had a ‘song’, this would be it. Something that shouldn’t be beautiful, but was.
He stops. You look at him, looking at your wrist and the band of purple-red around it. His eyes meet yours, full of questions and suspicions and (maybe, just maybe) a hint of concern. You pull your sleeve down and stand up. Question answered.
He sighs and turns back to the piano. He expects you to turn and walk away. You expect yourself to turn and walk away. But you don’t.
You put your hand on his shoulder.
“Do you want to stop by, later?”
He looks at you and smiles, and this time it’s whole.
Hawt Gavincest with suggestions of Kristoph/Phoenix. I'm working my way up to writing a full on KP fic, as they are now a tie for my favourite pairing. Very NC-17.
You never should have lied to him about the broken mirror. It was a stupid, rookie mistake, letting him catch you in it like that. You thought he would believe you. He always had, without question. How could he have possibly known?
---
The shiny handcuffs bite into your wrists. It hurts, and you cling to the pain. It keeps you still. It keeps you calm. You dig your fingernails into your palms and feel the scar stretch. This is who you are, this, perfect nails and imperfect skin, an angel and a devil rolled into one wonderfully flawed package. You hadn’t screamed then, and you will not now.
You will not.
Something moves across your naked flesh, feather-soft and ticklish. It trails over your face, your throat, your chest. You can feel every single silky strand, the electric pull of a body near enough to touch, the faint heat of breath. They say your senses get stronger when one is taken away, and he’s taken all of them from you with cotton and rubber and foam. All but one.
He touches you, warm and solid and shocking, skin on skin. His hand just barely brushes by your thigh but it’s as if he set you on fire. Your body reacts before your brain, pushing your hips up and forcing a groan through your teeth. You can’t hear him laugh, but you can feel it, little puffs of air against your stomach. Half of you is angry, embarrassed, ashamed. The other half... well, It doesn’t really care.
Something hot and rough and wet slides over your skin leaving a cold trail in it’s wake. Teeth scrape over your skin, lips soft and smooth as velvet. The soft silky somethings move over your skin along with it, a slow circle of sensation determined to touch every last inch of you. It takes everything you have not to let go and give him what he wants, what he needs.
What you need.
You feel him smile against your skin. He mouths words you can neither hear nor care about, not when you can feel the smooth rumble of his voice, the pull of his lips, the dart of his tongue. The bed shifts, and something brushes across your face, smelling of leather and sweat. Fingers ghost over the shell of your ear, and he gently pulls the earplugs out.
---
You never should have done it in the first place. It wasn’t like you needed the release. You had always been above that kind of vulgar thing. You just let your boredom and your curiosity get a hold of you. And besides, it was kind of fun.
---
He whispers to you, his famous voice husky and low. The words aren’t important. It’s the sound of it, echoing through your head. You never understood the appeal of his music, not really, but if he ever sang like this, half groan and half growl, you would buy every album you could find, if only to keep anyone else from hearing it. This belongs to you.
“Mein Gott, Kristoph, you’re such a fucking slut.” He runs his tongue over your stomach, dipping into your belly button and making you jump. “All these years I’ve been trying to make you happy, make you love me, make you want me, and all along, all I had to do was tie you up and take it. You should have screwed that shmuck ages ago, saved me some time.”
He works his way up your chest, slurping and sucking, obscene. It feels like something out of a bad porno, the kind Klavier was always ‘accidently’ leaving in the player, with wanton moaning women and faceless thrusting cocks on legs. The comparison bothers you just enough to keep you sane. He bites your nipple and pulls it into his mouth, releasing it with a pop.
“I always thought you were so fucking perfect. You never, ever lost control. And then I saw you with him. Watching him pounding into you, seeing that look on your face...” Teeth scrape against your earlobe, tongue flicking into the canal. “Beautiful. Completely fucking beautiful. It was like looking at God, bruder, it really was. God with a leaking cock and a dick in his ass.”
His lips drift over your face. His tongue traces along the strap of the gag. He nips your lip just hard enough to hurt, his hands slowly smoothing their way up your face. Fingers slip slowly under your blindfold and he pulls it up and off.
Now you can see everything.
¬¬---
You never should have let him talk you into the beer. You had a hundred different excuses, cases, reasons. You should have just sent him home and gone to bed like any other night. But you just couldn’t find your way behind that lopsided smile, and it bothered you.
---
He’s glorious. You’ve seen him like this before, in theory, after a concert with his hair unravelling, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. You’ve seen him with women hanging off his arms, men, showing off and looking for the spark of jealousy you’d never let him see. You’ve even seen him on his back in a lake of gold, eyelids drawn and lips bruised from kisses, your kisses.
But you’ve never, ever seen him quite like this.
Over top of you. Looking down and leering at you like you’re his favourite meal, red tongue rolling over his smiling lips. His blue eyes burn. He’s never looked so powerful, so in control. You had no idea he could be so... so this. And more importantly, you never knew you would like being looked at so very, very much.
“Kristoph...” You watch your name whisper past his lips, see them tremble just that little bit. “Fuck, Kristoph, I want you so bad. I know I shouldn’t, but... Mein Gott, seeing you with him, your face in the mirror, I...” He lowers his forehead to yours, and you can see his naked chest heaving with every panting breath. “I’ve never wanted anything so much in my entire life.”
He kisses you, pauses, runs his tongue along the rubber ball. He pulls back and smiles at you, and for the first time you realize he’s nervous. His stomach flutters and he swallows hard, leaning forward to kiss your neck while his quick fingers unhook the gag. Half of you wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The other half can’t remember how.
He pulls the gag off, and even though your jaw aches from it you can’t bring yourself to give a damn. Your little brother, your Liebe, is looking down at you unsure and afraid and trying so hard to hide it. It’s so like him, smiles and bluster on the outside while on the inside he’s all doubt. And as always, your there to show him that it’s all ok.
He tastes like strawberries.
---
You never should have let him in the door. You were ‘friends’, yes, but that was outside, in the world. This was your home. There were things there, everywhere, that could have tipped him off and sent your whole life slipping sideways. A suspicion was better than a certainty. He just looked so incredibly... Lonely.
---
He reacts instantly. His hands cup your face, lips crushing against yours hard enough to hurt. You go with it, letting things accelerate. You have no objections, not now with his tongue down your throat. You feel him press hard against your thigh and push back, tasting his moan in your mouth. Suddenly he pulls his hands away, shifts position, pushing your legs apart and settling between them.
“Tell me you want it.” He hisses, pressing hard kisses against your shoulder, half bite. “Tell me you want me, my cock inside you, fucking you into the mattress. Tell me I’m the one you want. I’m the only one you want. The only one you’ve ever wanted. Say it, bruder. Say it!”
And so you do.
“Mein Gott, Klavier, wünsche ich es. Ich wünsche Sie!”
You feel him tremble, sob into your skin, watch the tension and the fear melt out of him. He moans and presses into you, just like that, no preparation, thoughtless and careless and so much like him you can almost, almost forgive him for the pain. You swear at him in every language you know, and you’d think he’d get the hint but he doesn’t, just pushes deeper.
His hips jerk forward and suddenly he’s all the way inside, and it’s everything you can do to keep from screaming. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, tripping over himself to apologize and kissing you over and over but he doesn’t stop. You think maybe he can’t, because even though it hurts like hell you’re still hard against his stomach, and that’s all he feels.
He fucks you, just like he said he would, and eventually the pain starts to fade. He drives into you over and over and over until you feel like he’s crushed you into a bloody breathless pulp, knees pushed up around your ears. And then you watch him come, shouting your name into the flesh of your thigh and leaving a mark in blood and bruises, and behind your eyes you see a broken, lonely smile.
After, when you can see straight again, his head resting on your heaving chest, you can still feel that mark like the one on your hand. It becomes part of you, part of who you are. You smile. He catches you and smiles back.
He takes the handcuffs off and kisses you better.
---
You should have run the moment you realized you actually cared.
---
Phoenix doesn’t look up until you slip onto the bench beside him, fingering the familiar keys along with his broken tune. He doesn’t stop playing, and he doesn’t ask you why you’ve come, and you thank him for that. He always somehow knows what you want him to say, even when you don’t.
He pulls a roll of bills out of the pocket of his tattered hoodie and presses them into your palm.
“For the mirror.”
You smile. The money disappears into your jacket.
You sit for a while, playing a duet neither of you knows. It’s strange and ugly and out of sync, and somehow you can’t help but like it. If the two of you had a ‘song’, this would be it. Something that shouldn’t be beautiful, but was.
He stops. You look at him, looking at your wrist and the band of purple-red around it. His eyes meet yours, full of questions and suspicions and (maybe, just maybe) a hint of concern. You pull your sleeve down and stand up. Question answered.
He sighs and turns back to the piano. He expects you to turn and walk away. You expect yourself to turn and walk away. But you don’t.
You put your hand on his shoulder.
“Do you want to stop by, later?”
He looks at you and smiles, and this time it’s whole.