Dreams...and the Detective
Title: Lemon Curd
Pairing: Leon X Count D (yeah, yeah-no suprise here.)
Warnings: A brief non-con session early on, but it isn't really all that non-con. Also, you may get dizzy when you read this - I did. Try sitting down, maybe eating some chocolate.)
Rating: NC-17, R, Mature - you get the idea.
Comments: Several (wonderful!) people have written dream sequences, here and elsewhere, and I was intrigued, so I tried my hand at it. There's a reference or two to other fics I've written for PSOH, so if you don't know Hamlin, don't worry. The outfit D is wearing is modeled on the one from Dynasty and he wears soemthing similar here and there in the illustrations. I have been rereading PSOH madly and grow even more amazed at the subtext. Matsuri-sensei is a genious!. As always, I don't own or claim these characters, although I think I might like to live with them, because I have a serious sweet tooth.
Lemon Curd
Leon’s blue eyes snapped open. The room was dim and candle lit, candelabra scattered on furniture so dark it blended in to the walls. He could detect the scent of incense - the Count’s incense - in the air.
What the fuck?
It took a minute to focus, ‘cause the light was so bad, but the apparition before him was well worth it. Leon blinked some more just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.
Damn, D looked good in black leather!!
The Count shrugged a white shoulder and the fabric of his belted vest rippled. Leon realized it wasn’t leather at all, but instead some sort of nearly transparent satin or taffeta. Whatever. It brought out the blue-black gleam in D’s shining hair and made his skin look like cream. His purple-and-gold gaze was sultry and those perfect lips looked pouty, inviting.
Leon wanted a piece of that…but it didn’t seem likely. He was prone on a four-poster bed, hands bound uncomfortably behind his back, feet manacled to the bedposts. He couldn’t even close his legs, though he kinda wished he could, since he was stark naked and his hard-on was a little too much to ignore.
But D poked out the tip of his pink tongue and licked his lips provocatively, eying Leon’s crotch with avid interest. When Leon realized exactly what D was staring at, he blushed all over and looked away, embarrassed. The room was a ‘Thirties movie set, all frills and dark cherry and an antique cabinet radio like his grandmother had. D chuckled at his blush and straddled him in one quick movement, flexing muscles rippling beneath the skintight black silk of his tighter-than-poured-on pants. Leon shoved his hips up without thinking, just barely brushing the silk. He would have reached out to grab, to take, but his arms cramped in their unnatural position and he couldn’t find any leverage for his feet. The frustration made him groan aloud. He wanted it, whatever it was, that D was taunting him with now.
Jesus fucking Christ, D!
The purple silk handkerchief bound round his mouth made the curse a muffled garble. Leon contented himself with a bug-eyed glare, but D only reached out one gloved hand and fingerwalked up Leon’s bare chest. Leon thrashed in response, ‘cause it tickled, ‘cause he wanted it so fucking much and could do nothing, nothing to make it happen. A satin fingertip traced his collarbone, slid up his throat to the line of his jaw and firmly tipped up his head. The teasing kiss was placed just so on the gag, right over his open mouth, and Leon closed his eyes because he could not bear to look at D’s smile.
D sat, bringing his haunches down just behind Leon’s erection. Leon watched him with growing trepidation. He was captive, in some strange room that was oddly familiar, with a man dressed in what looked an awful lot like S&M garb. The elbow length satin gloves with the diamante buckles fascinated him, though, as did all the little frogged satin clasps down the front of D’s tight sleeveless vest. They begged to be undone, spread open so the skin underneath could be handled and adored…but damned if he could anything, not like this.
The fact that he wanted to ‘do anything’ at all shocked him. Hell, he’d had a gay roommate in college - he’d heard all about that shit, way more than he wanted to know. And he’d been propositioned, too, any number of times, usually when he was shit-faced and the hard edge had left his features, letting the pretty-boy shine through. Even shit-faced, though, he’d never had the urge or the inclination. Women were his thing, all the way. Give him a nice set of boobs and a pussy and he was a happy man. Whatever D had to offer here - if he was offering and this wasn’t some kind of pointless torture - it sure as shit wasn’t boobs. He could see D’s nipples under the paper-thin fabric, pointed and pert, but there was no burgeoning softness behind them. And judging from the telltale hardness pressed into his inner thigh, there wasn’t going to be any pussy, either. But, shit, he was still excited, damn it.
“D!” Have some fucking mercy, will ya? I’m dying here.
Satin fingers wrapped around his erection and pulled, gently, but with enough pressure to make Leon gasp into the gag. It hurt...pleasantly. He wasn’t into painful sex, but this was still very…pleasant. He held his breath in anticipation. What else was D going to do to him?
The Count slid his palm all the way down Leon’s shaft, tickling his pubic hair, and then gripped more firmly and eased back up. Leon still didn’t inhale - he couldn’t. Down, then up, then down and faster up, a satin forefinger caressing the tip of his cock on the upstrokes. Leon hauled in air finally and arched up his hips, his back curving with effort to get closer. D rocked and rubbed his silk clad bottom against Leon’s thighs in time to those killer swipes of his gloved hand and Leon started to shiver uncontrollably, watching that beautiful composed face transform with warm emotion. It was so fucking good, so good, and he didn’t fucking care if there was no pussy. As long as D kept going, doing that and never stopping, he wouldn’t say a goddamn thing about it, no matter what, no matter…
“Mmmarghg!” It was over way too fast. Cum stained the black satin gloves and dribbled onto Leon’s belly. D stopped rocking and the grip around Leon’s now flaccid cock eased. Leon opened his eyes, afraid that D might have disappeared, but he was still there, smiling mysteriously, the look in his eyes sweeter than Leon had ever imagined it could be. His vest was gone, though and that startled Leon - when had he removed it?
“Leon.”
It was his mother’s voice, not D’s - D hadn’t said one fucking word this whole time - and she was standing by his narrow bed, the morning sun cascading through her grey-streaked blonde hair. She had her apron on and he could smell pancakes and what the fuck was going on? D was there, atop him, half-naked and goddamn exotic. His mother smiled and D smiled back and for a second there, Leon thought the Count was going to wave.
Oh yeah. Now he remembered. This was a dream. He’d been here before - this was his room at home and he could see his desk and the open closet door out of the corner of his eye. There was a Playboy poster on the back of the door that his mother always pretended she didn’t see. If D noticed it, Leon knew he’d catch hell. Then his mom would get on his case and--
Wait. Wasn’t he naked and tied up? Wasn’t that one hell of a lot worse than a measly Playboy poster? Why wasn’t his mom saying anything? He looked down finally and saw jeans and T-shirt covering his formerly naked body. There was no feel of dampness between his thighs and no satin glove. His hands were clasped behind his head, elbows out; D was demurely clad in one of his Chinese dresses; and his mother was smiling and nodding at D, who was smiling and nodding back, just peachy. Everything was sane, normal, absolutely status quo.
Right.
This was a dream, remember? D had never met his mom - she was long dead by the time he’d met D. He’d just wanted to introduce them, for some stupid reason, but he knew damn well that’d never happen.
“You awake, Leon? Want some breakfast?” She smiled at the Count, “And some for your friend?”
“Uh, yeah, Mom…sure.”
No! He was not fucking awake, not one fucking iota. Not with D and his mom in the same room. Not in this universe.
“It would be my pleasure, ma’am,” D’s voice was warm and soft, caring even, and Leon wondered why, turning to glance D’s way. The room slid away when he closed his eyes briefly to ponder that and when he blinked again it was full dark, darker than a moonless night. He was still in bed but the T-shirt and jeans were gone. So was the smell of pancakes. When he opened his eyes a second time to peer into the dark, they were still dazzled by that flood of sunshine that had surrounded his mom. He couldn’t see much, but he could feel.
There was a familiar warmth next to him, breathing softly and evenly. A naked body that pressed up affectionately against his side, smooth skin meeting his from shoulder to knee. An possessive arm draped across Leon’s broad chest, and he could feel each point of each fingernail resting lightly on his skin. It was barely there, covered by the odors of shampoo and soap, sweat and freshly laundered cotton sheets, but he could taste it in the back of his throat- the smell of incense that was D. Leon closed his eyes with a sigh of relief. He was where he was supposed to be, at long last. If he never moved again from this spot he’d be damned happy, happier than he’d ever been in his whole life.
But he was shifting, sliding and slipping, and the world was twisting askew behind his closed eyes. He put his hand out desperately, to grab, to hold on, but the warmth and the good smells were only memory now -
And there was the Chief, and Jill, looking exasperated, and the Chief was yelling something about Leon’s stupidity and pigheadishness and how he always blamed everything on that goddamned Chinese pet shop owner and wasn’t it time he got off it? And Jill nodded in agreement so Leon had to shut his mouth on his reply, because no one understood why it had to be the Count’s fault, why it always had to be him. When the office door opened, Leon bolted out -- and fell -- out of the door and into the sky and there was wind whistling past his ears. The air was cold and thin and his lungs labored to draw breath. Peering down, eyes streaming, he tried to see the ground, to count the heartbeats he had left. A hand came from nowhere and reached out. Scarlet fingernails dug into his forearm, hauling, pulling with unimaginable force, till Leon thought his arm would come right out if its socket and -
The swell of the ocean rocked the big cargo ship just enough to make him sick, but he could not take Dramamine anymore. It only made him sicker - like all the OTC drugs he used to take - and so he could only endure, ‘cause in four hours he’d be up again, prowling the ship, hard at work. He rolled over in the tiny, too-short bunk and blearily peered out the rain-soaked porthole. It was a cold damp dawn, with nothing but ocean for miles and miles, and it would be days before they reached any kind of harbor. He lay back again and Hamlin scuffled in the space between his shoulder and his head, snuggling back down to sleep. Leon had hoped the little guy would lead him, guide him straight to D, but months had passed since Sydney and there had been no sign. He wondered sometimes if this was all there’d be, for the rest of his life, and then his heart stuttered in his chest and he wished, he wished--
He was in bed, rolling over, scratching his stomach, his T-shirt bunched up under his armpits. It was morning and he could smell coffee. The cheapo coffeemaker was actually doing its job this morning. Which was good, ‘cause he was just as tired as he’d been when he fell in bed. Fucking pansy-ass Count - never a straight answer, never a goddamn piece of real friggin’ evidence he could actually use. No wonder they laughed at him, down at the station - some kind of Boy Wonder he was supposed to be and just how many months had he spent chasing his tail? But he’d go there again today, he just knew it, ‘cause he couldn’t stay away, even when he tried. And he’d better take something good with him - éclairs or those little tea cakes he’d found in that British Shoppe (the Count liked those, with lemon curd; Leon enjoyed the quiet intensity on his face when he was spreading the curd on a toasted tea bun, so that the entire top was covered, edge to edge, dripping, and then he’d add jam and Leon would gag), or the Count would get prissy and then he’d never get any answers at all.
Comments welcome - bring 'em on!