PW, "Honor," Phoenix/Miles, NC-17
Ah, here we have a fiction I've meant to write since ... shoot, this summer? Fail. Anyway. It's based off a doujinshi by steampilot where Phoenix and Apollo are mafia bosses and ... mmph. It's incredibly dark and sad and well-written, really punches one in the gut.
THAT SAID. If you're one of those who read me and like fluff? THIS AIN'T IT. Don't read if you're looking for something fun, 'cause you'll be disappointed.
I'd originally had a goal to do 500 words of this, because I was struggling with it so much. Then I had a shitty day at work, spent most of the day fantasizing about strangling one of my co-workers with her own intestines (couldn't 'cause there are only latex gloves in the supply cupboard and I'm allergic to latex; that, and I'm good friends with the custodian and wouldn't want to saddle her with the mess) and so this story more than doubled that goal and here it is in all its m3Q-was-in-a-rotten-mood-when-she-wrote-this glory.
Yup. *cough*
Honor
by mistr3ss Quickly
There is no honor among thieves.
No honor, no glory. No respect outside the realm of familiars, of those too weak to stand alone, to stand up for what is right, what is just. No justice, fairness. No retribution, divine or otherwise. Nothing but power and weakness, the pull and push of authority.
The thick, plus carpet digs against the flesh of Miles' knees, rich though it may be, fine as his trousers are, the material normally soft, smooth. Elegant. He can smell leather over the musk of Phoenix's body, knows from the scent that it's good leather, butter-soft and expensive. The sort of thing only a man like Phoenix could afford and would want to own. Would want to have in a private suite such as the one Miles came to that evening, knowing full-well what would be expected of him.
No honor in this act, nothing but submission and humiliation, a debt paid with the price of his own dignity, his own sense of self. No glory, no pride in the way Phoenix's thighs tremble when Miles takes him deep, the noises Phoenix makes in the back of his throat, little murmurs and groans that tell Miles he's doing well, doing what he's been compelled to do with the same perfection he's famous in other aspects of his life.
"That's good," Phoenix says, threading his fingers through Miles' hair. "God you're good at this."
It's payment, paid with something other than material wealth. That, Miles knows, holds little value to men like Phoenix, men who recognize that money is of little consequence to a man like himself. Payment-not gratitude-for services rendered. Momentary obedience in exchange for a lifetime of freedom, one blemish of servitude staining a life of independence.
You would have suffered far worse than an evening spent with me, had you gone to prison, Phoenix had said over the phone, believing that Miles would resist him, would turn down his invitation, would stand firm in the face of his thinly veiled threats. Far worse and far more often. I'm familiar with the sort of men you would be forced to associate with, you see. I know what you were facing.
He was right, is right. Miles knows that, doesn't doubt it. Rationally, a evening spent drinking wine with a man who could be considered one of the most powerful in the city is far, far preferable to half a lifetime spent in prison with the lowest of the low, the criminals foolish enough to be caught and convicted for their crimes. Logically, a night spent pleasuring a man he's known since childhood and owes, on some level, a favor in exchange for his freedom, is no true hardship. Nothing compared to the horrors he refused to consider in detail, yet could never quite dismiss from his thoughts, all the long nights he spent engaged more personally with the United States justice system than he'd ever dared to fear he could become.
His heart offers dissent. Miles dismisses it; reacting to emotional impulse is foolish and dangerous. Pulling off, quitting before the fulfillment of his obligation, would be worse even than half a lifetime spent among criminals. An insult aimed at a man who takes insults far more seriously than the majority of the law-abiding citizenry Miles is aware of in his daily life. A statement of rejection, one which Miles knows will carry with it a price higher than he's willing to pay.
A price higher than that he's paying already.
So he closes his eyes and focuses on the task at hand, focuses his personal and academic knowledge of male anatomy on the movement of his tongue, the suction of his lips. He tightens his hands on his childhood friend's hips and relaxes his throat and takes the cock of the man for whom he no longer holds even a shred of respect deep into himself, swallows and sucks and lets his teeth graze just hard enough over the flared ridge of the head that Phoenix gasps and stiffens and comes for him. Fills his mouth with semen, bitter and foul and warm and bitter.
Miles swallows and sits back. Pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to wipe his mouth, saliva and sweat making his lips feel distantly cool through the numbness that always follows such an act. He can feel Phoenix watching him, looks up to meet the man's eyes. To show not defiance, but neither to show submission. To see what he can, what Phoenix will allow him to see.
Phoenix meets his gaze with a smile. Pushes himself up to sitting, one hand extended to help Miles to his feet.
"Didn't think you'd be that good at ... that," he says, smoothly. "Would you like a drink? I wasn't expecting that you'd swallow, I know it's not the best taste in the world."
Miles shakes his head. "I should go," he says.
Should have gone an hour ago, he doesn't add. I shouldn't be here.
Phoenix chuckles. "As you wish," he says.
He shows Miles to the door, hands him his coat. Lounges against the entryway with a lazy sort of grace that doesn't suit him, makes Miles' skin crawl. Reaches for Miles, hands gentle as he pulls Miles' collar up, buttons it at the throat.
"Cold out there," he says, even though it isn't and they both know it. "Wouldn't want you to catch anything."
Miles nods, doesn't trust himself to speak, or to speak civilly, at least. He puts his hand on the door-handle, gets it twisted halfway before he feels Phoenix's hand on his backside, the feeling muted through his clothing, through his coat.
"Maybe we'll have that drink next time, hmm?" Phoenix says, softly.
Miles opens the door and steps into the hall. Turns and meets Phoenix's gaze, his temper beginning to truly flair.
"Perhaps," he manages. "Goodnight."
Phoenix smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "Goodnight, Miles," he says. "Sleep well."
Miles dips his head in a nod, walks away. Swallows around the revulsion rising like bile in his throat, the aftertaste of semen and fury mixing into the beginning of a piercing headache.
Next time, he thinks, clenching his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. As if there will be a next time.
As if you're in a position to refuse a next time, Phoenix's voice murmurs, smooth and dark in the back of his mind. Real enough that Miles startles, glances behind to see if the man is there, following him.
He isn't. There's nothing but the corridor, empty and tastefully decorated. Nothing but his own footsteps, echoing when he turns and continues out, out to the freedom he just earned on his knees.
Next time, he thinks, brokenly.
There's no honor in this freedom he's found. No honor in it at all.
THAT SAID. If you're one of those who read me and like fluff? THIS AIN'T IT. Don't read if you're looking for something fun, 'cause you'll be disappointed.
I'd originally had a goal to do 500 words of this, because I was struggling with it so much. Then I had a shitty day at work, spent most of the day fantasizing about strangling one of my co-workers with her own intestines (couldn't 'cause there are only latex gloves in the supply cupboard and I'm allergic to latex; that, and I'm good friends with the custodian and wouldn't want to saddle her with the mess) and so this story more than doubled that goal and here it is in all its m3Q-was-in-a-rotten-mood-when-she-wrote-this glory.
Yup. *cough*
Honor
by mistr3ss Quickly
There is no honor among thieves.
No honor, no glory. No respect outside the realm of familiars, of those too weak to stand alone, to stand up for what is right, what is just. No justice, fairness. No retribution, divine or otherwise. Nothing but power and weakness, the pull and push of authority.
The thick, plus carpet digs against the flesh of Miles' knees, rich though it may be, fine as his trousers are, the material normally soft, smooth. Elegant. He can smell leather over the musk of Phoenix's body, knows from the scent that it's good leather, butter-soft and expensive. The sort of thing only a man like Phoenix could afford and would want to own. Would want to have in a private suite such as the one Miles came to that evening, knowing full-well what would be expected of him.
No honor in this act, nothing but submission and humiliation, a debt paid with the price of his own dignity, his own sense of self. No glory, no pride in the way Phoenix's thighs tremble when Miles takes him deep, the noises Phoenix makes in the back of his throat, little murmurs and groans that tell Miles he's doing well, doing what he's been compelled to do with the same perfection he's famous in other aspects of his life.
"That's good," Phoenix says, threading his fingers through Miles' hair. "God you're good at this."
It's payment, paid with something other than material wealth. That, Miles knows, holds little value to men like Phoenix, men who recognize that money is of little consequence to a man like himself. Payment-not gratitude-for services rendered. Momentary obedience in exchange for a lifetime of freedom, one blemish of servitude staining a life of independence.
You would have suffered far worse than an evening spent with me, had you gone to prison, Phoenix had said over the phone, believing that Miles would resist him, would turn down his invitation, would stand firm in the face of his thinly veiled threats. Far worse and far more often. I'm familiar with the sort of men you would be forced to associate with, you see. I know what you were facing.
He was right, is right. Miles knows that, doesn't doubt it. Rationally, a evening spent drinking wine with a man who could be considered one of the most powerful in the city is far, far preferable to half a lifetime spent in prison with the lowest of the low, the criminals foolish enough to be caught and convicted for their crimes. Logically, a night spent pleasuring a man he's known since childhood and owes, on some level, a favor in exchange for his freedom, is no true hardship. Nothing compared to the horrors he refused to consider in detail, yet could never quite dismiss from his thoughts, all the long nights he spent engaged more personally with the United States justice system than he'd ever dared to fear he could become.
His heart offers dissent. Miles dismisses it; reacting to emotional impulse is foolish and dangerous. Pulling off, quitting before the fulfillment of his obligation, would be worse even than half a lifetime spent among criminals. An insult aimed at a man who takes insults far more seriously than the majority of the law-abiding citizenry Miles is aware of in his daily life. A statement of rejection, one which Miles knows will carry with it a price higher than he's willing to pay.
A price higher than that he's paying already.
So he closes his eyes and focuses on the task at hand, focuses his personal and academic knowledge of male anatomy on the movement of his tongue, the suction of his lips. He tightens his hands on his childhood friend's hips and relaxes his throat and takes the cock of the man for whom he no longer holds even a shred of respect deep into himself, swallows and sucks and lets his teeth graze just hard enough over the flared ridge of the head that Phoenix gasps and stiffens and comes for him. Fills his mouth with semen, bitter and foul and warm and bitter.
Miles swallows and sits back. Pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to wipe his mouth, saliva and sweat making his lips feel distantly cool through the numbness that always follows such an act. He can feel Phoenix watching him, looks up to meet the man's eyes. To show not defiance, but neither to show submission. To see what he can, what Phoenix will allow him to see.
Phoenix meets his gaze with a smile. Pushes himself up to sitting, one hand extended to help Miles to his feet.
"Didn't think you'd be that good at ... that," he says, smoothly. "Would you like a drink? I wasn't expecting that you'd swallow, I know it's not the best taste in the world."
Miles shakes his head. "I should go," he says.
Should have gone an hour ago, he doesn't add. I shouldn't be here.
Phoenix chuckles. "As you wish," he says.
He shows Miles to the door, hands him his coat. Lounges against the entryway with a lazy sort of grace that doesn't suit him, makes Miles' skin crawl. Reaches for Miles, hands gentle as he pulls Miles' collar up, buttons it at the throat.
"Cold out there," he says, even though it isn't and they both know it. "Wouldn't want you to catch anything."
Miles nods, doesn't trust himself to speak, or to speak civilly, at least. He puts his hand on the door-handle, gets it twisted halfway before he feels Phoenix's hand on his backside, the feeling muted through his clothing, through his coat.
"Maybe we'll have that drink next time, hmm?" Phoenix says, softly.
Miles opens the door and steps into the hall. Turns and meets Phoenix's gaze, his temper beginning to truly flair.
"Perhaps," he manages. "Goodnight."
Phoenix smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "Goodnight, Miles," he says. "Sleep well."
Miles dips his head in a nod, walks away. Swallows around the revulsion rising like bile in his throat, the aftertaste of semen and fury mixing into the beginning of a piercing headache.
Next time, he thinks, clenching his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. As if there will be a next time.
As if you're in a position to refuse a next time, Phoenix's voice murmurs, smooth and dark in the back of his mind. Real enough that Miles startles, glances behind to see if the man is there, following him.
He isn't. There's nothing but the corridor, empty and tastefully decorated. Nothing but his own footsteps, echoing when he turns and continues out, out to the freedom he just earned on his knees.
Next time, he thinks, brokenly.
There's no honor in this freedom he's found. No honor in it at all.