Deleted Scene
Title: One More Thing That Didn’t Happen in Alphabet
Authors Note: Let's be clear on this. This didn't happen in Alphabet. I just couldn't get the mental image out of my head so decided it was worth jotting down, since it was that persistent. So it is not fic-canon. It's like... fanfiction, twice removed. >.>
Pairing: Matt/V (I don't fucking know, don't look at me, this is a weird one.)
Rating: NC-17
Maybe, thinks V, in a little bit of alarm, the drugs weren’t as perfect a solution as I’d assumed.
Matt holds tighter, winding one strong arm around V’s shoulders, his neck. His eyes are glassy and wide, and his bottom lip is between his teeth, and he looks irritated and miles away and uncertain as to why V has closed firm hands on his upper arms and halted his progress before he could really start.
They’re on the couch, where V had been watching the news, and where he’s now watching Matt, who’s straddling him a little unsteadily, but smiling through the uncertainty.
“Why not?” Matt whispers, leaning down to rest his forehead against V’s shoulder. The inside of his mouth tastes like cotton and he’s hovering somewhere between wanting and just wanting to lie down and let the world stop spinning. No, let V lie him down and fuck him. Sleep forever. “Please?”
“Because it would be taking advantage,” V replies, firmly as he can. Matt edges forwards, somehow slipping out of V’s grip and pressing entirely against him. V looks at his hands like they’ve betrayed him, and Matt moans, gently.
V hasn’t touched a human, skin to skin, since Larkhill. The only ones whose touch he actually remembers are the doctors callous hands, and the guards wrenching grips. He has not touched a human being who he wasn’t killing in his entire memory. Except the walk, carrying Matt’s unconscious body back to his home.
The same body that’s wrapping around him, willing and feverishly hot. V can feel his skin like it’s burning, through his thick clothes. Dimly, he’s aware that this is wrong, that he feels nothing for Matt and that Matt has his mystery boyfriend, who V’s been so comfortably told about.
All the same, it can’t hurt, can it? To slip a glove off, and behind Matt’s head, where the man can’t see, to run the pads of scarred fingers along the back of Matt’s strong neck. It damages nothing but his resolve; Matt moans urgently, like V’s taken off something more than a glove. The neck is an erogenous zone, after all, V supposes, and he’s certainly going to hell for this.
It’s too much to resist. He slips his whole hand to rest over the nape of Matt’s neck, curling firmly, tugging him closer. Matt burrows further into the crook of his shoulder, eyes closed into the soft black of V’s jacket. He won’t see, and V doesn’t want him to.
Fingers trace down the back of Matt’s neck, and up again, to play with the short hairs. Down again, curling around, and up, sliding along the corner of his jaw, and tracing back to his ear. As he begins to explore, keeping his motions slow and rhythmic, he becomes aware of Matt’s hips shifting. Matt tries to look up, and V curls his hand hard, keeping him still with enough force to make him whimper. Or maybe that’s because his erection has just come into contact with V’s stomach, and he’s thrusting lazily.
V’s breath catches hard in his throat at the feeling. This is another human being. One who isn’t guilty of great evil, unless he counts destruction of property. One who he isn’t leaving a rose for. He runs his fingers along Matt’s hot skin again, and bites his tongue to keep from making any sound.
This isn’t sexual, he tells himself, he isn’t taking that kind of advantage. In fact, he should make Matt stop moving his hips that way. So his free hand curls around Matt’s hip, but that just makes him groan and try harder, graceless and hot and breathing stickily into the side of V’s neck. He can feel the dampness through the collar of his jacket, even.
V has to close his eyes, and acknowledge that he is not a good enough man to make Matt stop. The world narrows down to his hand. Matt’s breath is catching in his throat and V can feel the tremulous little hitches and the small mewls of enjoyment vibrating through skin and bone.
He knows the scar tissue must feel strange to Matt, but he strokes harder, anyways, caressing the skin just under his ear and provoking a sharp gasp and a frantic shudder through the supple body pressed to him. He feels Matt’s shoulders lock up, and knows he’s coming more by virtue of the sudden stillness afterwards than anything else.
While Matt catches his breath, V reluctantly slips the glove back on. Embarrassment and shame will find their ways in, in just a moment, he has no doubt. But for now, he feels nothing but quiet wonder. And perhaps sharp longing, lodged like a knife somewhere under his breastbone.
“I need to clean up,” Matt mutters, lifting his head. V lets the hand on his hip drop away, and rests his hands down on the seat of the couch. Matt interprets the sign correctly, and climbs fully off him. When Matt rises, V does too.
“I can do it on my own.”
“It’s not that,” V replies, “you just need another dose when you’re done.”
Matt blinks at him, upset and resentful, and oh, there’s the guilt. He was starting to wonder when that would hit.
“You’ve left me no alternative, Matt.”
Matt nods grimly, and walks out of the room, to the small bedroom V’s left to him. V closes his eyes, and nearly whispers, ‘God give me strength.’ Perhaps he was a religious man before Larkhill.
Matt doesn’t lock the door. They both know how it has to be.
Authors Note: Let's be clear on this. This didn't happen in Alphabet. I just couldn't get the mental image out of my head so decided it was worth jotting down, since it was that persistent. So it is not fic-canon. It's like... fanfiction, twice removed. >.>
Pairing: Matt/V (I don't fucking know, don't look at me, this is a weird one.)
Rating: NC-17
Maybe, thinks V, in a little bit of alarm, the drugs weren’t as perfect a solution as I’d assumed.
Matt holds tighter, winding one strong arm around V’s shoulders, his neck. His eyes are glassy and wide, and his bottom lip is between his teeth, and he looks irritated and miles away and uncertain as to why V has closed firm hands on his upper arms and halted his progress before he could really start.
They’re on the couch, where V had been watching the news, and where he’s now watching Matt, who’s straddling him a little unsteadily, but smiling through the uncertainty.
“Why not?” Matt whispers, leaning down to rest his forehead against V’s shoulder. The inside of his mouth tastes like cotton and he’s hovering somewhere between wanting and just wanting to lie down and let the world stop spinning. No, let V lie him down and fuck him. Sleep forever. “Please?”
“Because it would be taking advantage,” V replies, firmly as he can. Matt edges forwards, somehow slipping out of V’s grip and pressing entirely against him. V looks at his hands like they’ve betrayed him, and Matt moans, gently.
V hasn’t touched a human, skin to skin, since Larkhill. The only ones whose touch he actually remembers are the doctors callous hands, and the guards wrenching grips. He has not touched a human being who he wasn’t killing in his entire memory. Except the walk, carrying Matt’s unconscious body back to his home.
The same body that’s wrapping around him, willing and feverishly hot. V can feel his skin like it’s burning, through his thick clothes. Dimly, he’s aware that this is wrong, that he feels nothing for Matt and that Matt has his mystery boyfriend, who V’s been so comfortably told about.
All the same, it can’t hurt, can it? To slip a glove off, and behind Matt’s head, where the man can’t see, to run the pads of scarred fingers along the back of Matt’s strong neck. It damages nothing but his resolve; Matt moans urgently, like V’s taken off something more than a glove. The neck is an erogenous zone, after all, V supposes, and he’s certainly going to hell for this.
It’s too much to resist. He slips his whole hand to rest over the nape of Matt’s neck, curling firmly, tugging him closer. Matt burrows further into the crook of his shoulder, eyes closed into the soft black of V’s jacket. He won’t see, and V doesn’t want him to.
Fingers trace down the back of Matt’s neck, and up again, to play with the short hairs. Down again, curling around, and up, sliding along the corner of his jaw, and tracing back to his ear. As he begins to explore, keeping his motions slow and rhythmic, he becomes aware of Matt’s hips shifting. Matt tries to look up, and V curls his hand hard, keeping him still with enough force to make him whimper. Or maybe that’s because his erection has just come into contact with V’s stomach, and he’s thrusting lazily.
V’s breath catches hard in his throat at the feeling. This is another human being. One who isn’t guilty of great evil, unless he counts destruction of property. One who he isn’t leaving a rose for. He runs his fingers along Matt’s hot skin again, and bites his tongue to keep from making any sound.
This isn’t sexual, he tells himself, he isn’t taking that kind of advantage. In fact, he should make Matt stop moving his hips that way. So his free hand curls around Matt’s hip, but that just makes him groan and try harder, graceless and hot and breathing stickily into the side of V’s neck. He can feel the dampness through the collar of his jacket, even.
V has to close his eyes, and acknowledge that he is not a good enough man to make Matt stop. The world narrows down to his hand. Matt’s breath is catching in his throat and V can feel the tremulous little hitches and the small mewls of enjoyment vibrating through skin and bone.
He knows the scar tissue must feel strange to Matt, but he strokes harder, anyways, caressing the skin just under his ear and provoking a sharp gasp and a frantic shudder through the supple body pressed to him. He feels Matt’s shoulders lock up, and knows he’s coming more by virtue of the sudden stillness afterwards than anything else.
While Matt catches his breath, V reluctantly slips the glove back on. Embarrassment and shame will find their ways in, in just a moment, he has no doubt. But for now, he feels nothing but quiet wonder. And perhaps sharp longing, lodged like a knife somewhere under his breastbone.
“I need to clean up,” Matt mutters, lifting his head. V lets the hand on his hip drop away, and rests his hands down on the seat of the couch. Matt interprets the sign correctly, and climbs fully off him. When Matt rises, V does too.
“I can do it on my own.”
“It’s not that,” V replies, “you just need another dose when you’re done.”
Matt blinks at him, upset and resentful, and oh, there’s the guilt. He was starting to wonder when that would hit.
“You’ve left me no alternative, Matt.”
Matt nods grimly, and walks out of the room, to the small bedroom V’s left to him. V closes his eyes, and nearly whispers, ‘God give me strength.’ Perhaps he was a religious man before Larkhill.
Matt doesn’t lock the door. They both know how it has to be.