My Slave To That Great Power
Title: My Slave to That Great Power : A 'From the Ashes, Hope' one-shot
Author: Kassy_syd
Rating: FRM
Pairing: Hotch/Reid
This Story: Two years after Hotch and Reid come together, they're still learning about each other. PLEASE read the warnings as this obviously isn't everyone's cup of tea! And yes this is a oneshot so no need to read the other story, it's pretty self contained.
Notes: Partial AU, Hotch and all the others still work for the BAU but Reid doesn't. He's under the control of a government program (instituationalised slavery, suffice to say, his mind doesn't work like other people's and he's more than a little broken, but so is Hotch) but when he gets brought in on a case Hotch feels the connection and claims him. (Note: Hotch never married)
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, so please don't sue me!
Warnings and thereabouts: Some chapters deal with issues of institutionalised slavery, bdsm, violence, abuse, spanking, bloodplay, hurt/comfort, romance, among others.
A NOTE OF CAUTION!!! - This section is written as a thank you to some friends who nominated me for an award... IT'S HARCORE!!! and is DOES NOT follow the story in terms of timeline...think of it as an AU to my AU story :P I seem to have freaked out a few people already so please mind the warning!!!
My Slave to That Great Power
From the Ashes, Hope: A glimpse into a possible future in the Ashes Verse.
I can't help thinking back over the past few years with a mixed sense of unease and thankfulness. A strange connection still stretches taught between us that leaves me wondering about his awareness of the complexities within my soul. It was his actions that brought us together and his strength that allowed us to find some sense of unity.
But he rests now, curled up on the couch next to me. His still too lean form curled up under the weight of half a dozen stifling blankets, his body still reacting badly to the cold. The doctors tell me that it's a symptom left over from years of ill health and a body perpetually underweight.
But truthfully, I know it's not just about that.
He likes the weight of them holding him down and pressing him in some encompassing way. Some weight, some pressure from inanimate objects gives him a feeling of security, much like autistic children often crave the same, an embrace untainted by human emotions.
But, unlike them, his head rests peacefully on my thigh. His pale hand sliding up from underneath it's nest of blankets to clasp mine, his eyes still fixed firmly forward.
“Aaron?”
“Yes?” I ask, knowing the question already but it's still important to make him ask for it.
“Will you...” he falters on the first try, but I'm patient and with a little time to gather his nerve he tries again, “Can you me hurt tonight?” I smile down at him as a reward and brush my hand through his hair.
“Of course I will. In fact I'll do better than that, I'll make you come tonight too.” Which prompts such a genuinely delighted response that I can't help leaning over to press my lips to that smile, tasting for myself the sweetness of his mood.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
I keep us there a little longer though. Instead I stroke the curve of his neck and run the tips of my fingers through his hair. I learnt early that physical intimacy between us needs to be built up gradually. Too soon and he panics.
He needs to let his body become accustomed to my touch. Even now when we're in public he can barely tolerate any touch at all. Instead of a hug or a kiss, I content myself with running my fingers along the seam on the collar of his shirt or tapping two of my fingers on the palm of his hand. A small gesture signifying much. To us at least.
For what I plan to do tonight, I'm going to have to strengthen our physical bond early. Let him soak in my touch, let him get to know my body as well as he knows he own. Which, even that sometimes, he barely knows at all.
But that comes with the territory I remind myself.
I have to do that a lot nowadays, his determination to function normally in the outside world hides the fact that often he is struggling within his own mind. I forget the battle he fights to keep the others from taking over, from loosing contact with his own body. It's been a hard week for all of us and now that the case that case is closed the need to re-establish contact and sooth his overtaxed mind takes precedence over everything else. I need to help him settle himself back into his own body. I should have done this earlier, I chastise myself for my obliviousness and make the resolution to have more frequent sessions.
But tonight I have something special planned, something difficult but worthwhile.
I'd figured it out a while ago and, in my own overly cautious way, been putting it off for months. It was something that both thrilled and terrified me. The fact that it would help him, give him (and me) something to cling to when we didn't have each other near was what convinced me. He needed it done.
The fact that the mere thought of it sent burst of utter arousal through my skin, warm fingers wrapping themselves around the darker places in my mind, urging me on was only a side effect. This is for him.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
I lean over once again and whisper to him, “You did so well today and I know it's not easy for you to keep such a tight control over it all. So tonight, I'm going to make you let go of it all. I'm going to make you scream and beg and cry and I'm going to be right there with you.”
His beautiful close for a second, still not meeting mine, but I can see the half-smile edging it's way onto his face as he tucks himself in closer to me. I know another part of him is searching my mind. Not sifting my thoughts like he does with those at work but tasting my mood and delving into my arousal so that his own may grow deeper.
At first I found this disconcerting but now I welcome his easily. I'd give him access to every part of me if he desired it. Sometimes I feel like I don't know who I am without him. Sometimes I feel like I want to simply pick him up and walk away from all of this, from everyone.
To save him this pain.
But I can't and here we are, gathering these gentle moments together like pieces of a puzzle and reminding ourselves that at least in all of this we have found each other.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
Eventually I can feel him loosen under my gentle caresses and I know that he's ready. I ease him to his feet.
“You remember what to say?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“Willow to stop.”
“And to rest or slow down?”
“Oak” Not that I'd ever go so far as to warrant him using them, but it's part of the ritual we had formed when preparing for a scene and was always asked well before any other action. He liked routines he could follow and it helped him get in the right head space. I lead him upstairs through the bedroom to the bathroom.
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I led him to the shower, another part of the ritual.
I kiss him sweetly on the side of the neck where the skin turns pale and hair is soft and short as it curves behind his ear. Trembling slightly, he leans into my touch, millimetre by millimetre until I can feel him resting gently against me, his head curled into the crook of my neck. I can feel his intake of breathe against my chest, and the warm air passing along the line of my jaw as he lets out a small sound, a needy whisper.
Easing my hand down the length of his neck, I grasp the first of the straps nestled between his shoulder blades. It slips free easily and I'm able to slide my hands down further to the next buckle located against his lover back and the last acting like a reverse belt. This harness he now wears is different from his old one, it's still designed to be almost impossible for him to remove on his own. But this design when worn under a jacket looks simply like a set of thick braces and a gun holster (not that he's ever be allowed a gun, but the illusion is there).
He also wears only wrist and ankle cuffs now as I was able to convince his caseworker that after the trauma he experienced, wearing a full harness would do more damage than good. We compromised. The embarrassment they'd face if the truth of that case was ever made public also helped my argument somewhat.
I still had to keep a set of thigh and arm restraints in my draw at work
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
After I've eased him out of the straps, I unbutton his shirt and pull it off his shoulders. The sudden touch of his skin against mine draws that ache of desire out further and I can't help moaning slightly. He moans too, an odd echo of my own from a moment earlier. It's still a little disconcerting to hear him mirroring me, it's a comfort thing for him and a common behaviour for Sera, but that doesn't make it any less eerie. But I ignore it, allowing him to think I didn't notice or didn't care.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
Pushing him back against the sink, I begin unzipping his pants. I have to crouch to pull them down over his knees and feet until finally he is free of them.
I place my lips on that tender place just above the curve of his hip and follow the line of the harness down between his legs, splitting them and easing the stiff strips away and down.
I hear a sigh from above, as if a great weight had been lifted. And if it had been anyone else, I wouldn't be surprised by this reaction to being released. But knowledge of his condition has led him to feel fearful when unrestrained, he dreads his own actions, he fears the damage he could, and has, done to people he loves. The guilt heavy and sickening, twisting him up inside until he can barely trust his own mind. All the progress we have made, seems like nothing when he practically begs me to keep him from hurting people.
I look up at him warily, worried what I might see. But the flush in his cheeks and the desire in his eyes gives him away. My concern turns to amusement almost instantly, well, I think to myself, that sigh must have been for the release of something else. The evidence sliding free as I ease him out of his underpants. I smile up at him in reward, and brush my hand down it's length, just once to show my interest, before shucking my clothes and guiding us both into the shower stall.
0.0.0.0.0.0.
First this.
This ritual of scrubbing away the grime of days past. Wash away the filth on his body before concentrating on his mind.
That I could reach inside his mind and sift though his memories, pluck out and clean those not even his, that haunt his dreams at night, and in my arms as he wept bitter salty tears. I wish I could clean out his mind, take a scalpel and cut away the imprints left by cruel men and women, by murderers who showed him their crimes, as we ask him to still, show themselves, through him.
And I wonder whether he'll survive more of this. Can he survive being who he is, doing what he does?
Sometimes I wonder if he hasn't died already, if we both have already been destroyed by all this filth, all this horror. That when we found each other we were both broken, scared and ripped apart.
What Sean took from me, what Spencer will take with him and what all that darkness we see every day corrupts. I know, without any doubt, I will not survive this alone. What's left of me will break apart and be blown away like the scraps they are.
It's as if we are two broken pieces of a whole, that someone in their cruelty ripped apart, stripped pieces from and burnt away.
We cannot be healed, I know that now.
But we can fit together.
Somehow Spencer knew, he saw that the pieces I still clutched desperately close to my chest were the pieces he was missing. And like a puzzle, we placed what was left on a table and managed to fit them together, seams lining up, colours fitting together until finally we had a whole.
Not what we had before but something new, something that was neither nor both, but simply there between us. A strange connection stretched taught between us, allowing us to go on and maybe if we can keep our pieces together, not let them take any more.
Maybe, I can hope, maybe we will survive this.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
I wash his body slowly, concentrating on covering every part of him, talking him through the process as it helps ease him down into the right head space.
“Can you feel the cloth here, against your thigh?”
I chose a rough cloth, one that on anyone else would be too harsh. But it helps him, makes him pay attention to the messages being sent to his brain. Instead of the murmuring, roaring voices, he can feel the cloth against his skin, the rough texture working free all the lingering traces from the days past. I tell him to concentrate on my voice, and listen to his body, to feel his arousal and soak himself in the warmth of the water flowing over his skin. Guiding him to focus on his body helps him out of his head and means that I need not use such high levels of pain to get through to him and pleasure helps as well.
We're learning slowly what works.
I had tried to use pleasure alone for a while, hoping that it was enough, that it could suffice. But he explained once again, in his quiet, gentle and firm way the truth. Pain lingered, the aching stinging jolts allow him to keep his tortured mind clear for longer. Pleasure, he explained, is momentary, wonderful but passing.
Pain lingers, pain lasts. Pain marks paths on which he can crawl back to reality, back to himself.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
Finally I wash his hair, running my fingers through it length and easing the water from the ends, watching it cascade down his back in soapy rivers. I massage his scalp, letting him rest against me once again.
“I love you like this” I tell him, “Affectionate and willing to let me touch you, I know it's hard but I love to touch you like this.” I run my hand across his belly, pulling him in tighter to me, “You are so beautiful, that I want touch all of you. I wish...” I cut myself off, knowing the pointlessness of the desire.
But he's there, turning in my arms, letting his actions speak for him.
He meets my eyes for the first time that night and draws me close, his lips so close I can feel his breathe brush over mine.
I try desperately not to show the sadness I'm feeling, but he knows. He leans close and kisses the side of my lips, chastely at first, as if seeking permission. My reaction, obvious enough that soon he has my mouth again against his, a gentle, hesitant passion has him sliding his tongue into my mouth and bringing with it release into careless desire. I give into the kiss, longing to draw him up to me and give us both release, to press my hands into his still wet skin and kiss my way down his chest till I'm on my knees, drawing him into my mouth and delivering that sweetest moment, taking him there until he's weak with it. Relaxed and easy, resting in my arms once again.
But he didn't ask for that. I agreed to give him something else, something stronger.
I pull out of the kiss and ease his chin up till our eyes meet once again.
“Ready?”
“Yes”
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
He lays me face down on our bed.
It's covered in a plastic sheet but he's put a soft blanket over it so all I feel is the warmth of it under me. And his hands guiding me into position. No pillow under my head this time, instead he guides my arms to rest under me, my forehead pressing just above my wrists.
I want so badly to reach around and pull him to me. Beg him to touch me again like he did in the shower. The air is so cold on my damp skin and he's not with me yet, I know he'll come back but for now I ache for the weight of the blankets I was surrounded in earlier. I want to curl up and sink into the stifling heat they offer.
I hate to lie here so exposed. And my heart is racing, my lungs contracting. Aaron, I want to beg, Aaron, come back to me. And there is nothing holding me there, holding me down or keeping me safe. Keeping him safe.
Put the cuffs on, I've asked him so many times. On nights like this, I've asked and he's refused.
'I trust you' he's said, brushing off my fears, 'I know you can control it. You won't hurt me'
And so far he's been right, the whispered had stayed whispers, and the nobodies had stayed nobodies. And the whole time I'd been with him, naked and somehow more than terrified and less than scared. I'd been ok, I'd felt myself slipping into a place different from the darkness where I usually fell. I fell somewhere infinitely more alive, more calm and somehow more real. Since that first night he'd guided me there, I knew I needed him.
So resisting the urge to move I wait, wait for him to give me whatever it is he's willing to give.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
The first thing I feel is his weight settle beside me and his warm hands run down my back, resting momentarily on the base of my spine.
“Spencer, you need to listen to me carefully. Tonight I need you not to move. Even when it hurts, you need to stay perfectly still. Nod if you understand”
I nod, ready.
He kisses a spot on each of my shoulder blades before he draws back and I feel first the cold of the metal digging into my skin and then the sting as flesh gives way.
I can't help but hiss a little through my teeth. That first moment, that first kiss of pain, that first jarring assault on my senses. My vision swims and I'm pressing my head tightly into my arms. God, I'm not used to this pain, the immediacy of my skin giving way and the blood seeping to the surface so I can feel it leaking slowly out of the wound and down my side to drip rhythmicly onto the blanket.
I gasp but remain perfectly still, I don't want to ruin this.
He draws the knife out, away from my spine and when he's done, he drops the knife beside me. His warm hands come to rest on either side of my head and his voice whispers into my ear.
“Breathe for me sweetheart.”And I do, obedience instantaneous “That's it. You're doing great. Nod when you're ready to go on”
When my heart stills and my vision clears I nod. Ready.
And the second cut is less jarring than the last, instead it's potent, and heavy, a weight pushing me down underwater. It's an immediate ache, an immediate shift from skin, to mind, to me, somewhere I'm sinking. But I'm not fighting, I'm relaxing, letting the rushing water wash over me. When I'm not here, I forget about this place a little, it looses colour, looses flavour.
But here I am, in a magnificent chamber of light and colour, that's somehow heavy and thick but full of music. My body is singing, it's telling me that it feels, it's alive.
Breathe, in and out, in and out. Let that rhythm be your base, in and out and sinking and singing along with all that music. I can feel him around me, beside me. Somehow we're walking through that chamber of heavy light and music and he has my hand. It's cutting a way across my shoulder blades but it's also here in mine, grasping me tight to him.
“Aaron,” I whisper, wanting to scream it out but I can't, I'm too caught up in it all. “Aaron, Aaron!”
“I know,” he tells me. “Keep breathing.”
And I do, and I shift towards him, pulling him towards the colours, the music. I pull him with me into this place. And together we watch it all shift around us, stripping us of all that is not essentially us. Stripping me back to my skin, my mind and my heart.
And suddenly I can feel him press into me again, another and another stripe of pain. Another and another caress.
He's taking me where we haven't walked before. Making changes that are forever, my skin is splitting and my mind is opening as well and everything is rushing out into the swell. I want to dance with him to the beat of the changes, but I don't want to move, I don't want him to stop.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
The liquid is running down his back, pooling red and thick. And I'm almost done. Almost finished this. I can feel him breathing raggedly underneath me, his fists clenched and and his body stiff. But I can feel him needing more as well, somehow, I can feel him inching his way inside my mind. I want this, he's telling me, follow me here, guide me here. And I do, I keep cutting until it's almost done, easing my knife in controlled strokes through his skin, deep enough to scar but not deep enough to do real damage. I'm careful but it's tenuous, he's loosing himself and I can feel myself going with him.
Just one more, I tell myself, one more and you're done. One more and the task is complete and you can give in to him, you can give over your mind and slide into that neither place between pleasure and pain. Join him there.
And I do. I complete the last cut and fall with him, gasping and grinding against him.
He rises and turns into my arms and the blood flows across his chest in red etches.
I pull him to me so his legs are around my waist and we're kissing. Physically kissing, harsh and alive. Sweat and blood combining till both our chests are strained pink. And tears I didn't know I'd shed glisten on his cheeks as I rub my cheek against his, I'm sobbing I realise. Like a child and we're kissing and that edge of pleasure is building.
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That edge of pleasure is building as I'm surrounded by his arms. That edge we've walked together before now seems so much more definite, permanent. That when we finally cross it we'll both fall somewhere new, somewhere better.
And I want to beg him to touch me, use the blood, sweat and tears, use the pain, use the colours and heavy music and the fact that somehow it's raining outside and I've only just noticed.
PLEASE! Take us both over that definite edge.
Then I realise, he can't move, can't act. It's up to me to guide us there. It's us now.
And I reach down, between us and with a willing hand thrust us both over that edge. That gasping, moaning, cascade of sensation, where pain meets pleasure and he's shaking in my arms, letting me wipe away the tears.
And he looks at me, our gazes meeting and a knowledge etched in the space between.
“My beautiful Seraphim, my slave to that great power” He whispers, “I drew you wings.”
I know it's been a while since I've written in this verse so I thought a little reintroduction of sorts and a little scene between my two lovers might help gets things rolling again. PLEASE COMMENT because I almost let this story fade except that wonderful people (you know who you are!!!) nominated it for an award so I felt I should thank them by writing some more...it's unbeta'd and very rough but I hope you all liked it...what do you think of the possible way it might head? Yay or Nay?!??!?!?!
ps. did you all get my little Seraphim thing or should I have explained the history?!?!? For those who don't know, the Seraphim are a race of Angels God created who were the most treasured, but as all Angels are, slaves to him whim. The nickname for people with Reid's condition is Sera or Serpahim.
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Author: Kassy_syd
Rating: FRM
Pairing: Hotch/Reid
This Story: Two years after Hotch and Reid come together, they're still learning about each other. PLEASE read the warnings as this obviously isn't everyone's cup of tea! And yes this is a oneshot so no need to read the other story, it's pretty self contained.
Notes: Partial AU, Hotch and all the others still work for the BAU but Reid doesn't. He's under the control of a government program (instituationalised slavery, suffice to say, his mind doesn't work like other people's and he's more than a little broken, but so is Hotch) but when he gets brought in on a case Hotch feels the connection and claims him. (Note: Hotch never married)
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, so please don't sue me!
Warnings and thereabouts: Some chapters deal with issues of institutionalised slavery, bdsm, violence, abuse, spanking, bloodplay, hurt/comfort, romance, among others.
A NOTE OF CAUTION!!! - This section is written as a thank you to some friends who nominated me for an award... IT'S HARCORE!!! and is DOES NOT follow the story in terms of timeline...think of it as an AU to my AU story :P I seem to have freaked out a few people already so please mind the warning!!!
My Slave to That Great Power
From the Ashes, Hope: A glimpse into a possible future in the Ashes Verse.
I can't help thinking back over the past few years with a mixed sense of unease and thankfulness. A strange connection still stretches taught between us that leaves me wondering about his awareness of the complexities within my soul. It was his actions that brought us together and his strength that allowed us to find some sense of unity.
But he rests now, curled up on the couch next to me. His still too lean form curled up under the weight of half a dozen stifling blankets, his body still reacting badly to the cold. The doctors tell me that it's a symptom left over from years of ill health and a body perpetually underweight.
But truthfully, I know it's not just about that.
He likes the weight of them holding him down and pressing him in some encompassing way. Some weight, some pressure from inanimate objects gives him a feeling of security, much like autistic children often crave the same, an embrace untainted by human emotions.
But, unlike them, his head rests peacefully on my thigh. His pale hand sliding up from underneath it's nest of blankets to clasp mine, his eyes still fixed firmly forward.
“Aaron?”
“Yes?” I ask, knowing the question already but it's still important to make him ask for it.
“Will you...” he falters on the first try, but I'm patient and with a little time to gather his nerve he tries again, “Can you me hurt tonight?” I smile down at him as a reward and brush my hand through his hair.
“Of course I will. In fact I'll do better than that, I'll make you come tonight too.” Which prompts such a genuinely delighted response that I can't help leaning over to press my lips to that smile, tasting for myself the sweetness of his mood.
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I keep us there a little longer though. Instead I stroke the curve of his neck and run the tips of my fingers through his hair. I learnt early that physical intimacy between us needs to be built up gradually. Too soon and he panics.
He needs to let his body become accustomed to my touch. Even now when we're in public he can barely tolerate any touch at all. Instead of a hug or a kiss, I content myself with running my fingers along the seam on the collar of his shirt or tapping two of my fingers on the palm of his hand. A small gesture signifying much. To us at least.
For what I plan to do tonight, I'm going to have to strengthen our physical bond early. Let him soak in my touch, let him get to know my body as well as he knows he own. Which, even that sometimes, he barely knows at all.
But that comes with the territory I remind myself.
I have to do that a lot nowadays, his determination to function normally in the outside world hides the fact that often he is struggling within his own mind. I forget the battle he fights to keep the others from taking over, from loosing contact with his own body. It's been a hard week for all of us and now that the case that case is closed the need to re-establish contact and sooth his overtaxed mind takes precedence over everything else. I need to help him settle himself back into his own body. I should have done this earlier, I chastise myself for my obliviousness and make the resolution to have more frequent sessions.
But tonight I have something special planned, something difficult but worthwhile.
I'd figured it out a while ago and, in my own overly cautious way, been putting it off for months. It was something that both thrilled and terrified me. The fact that it would help him, give him (and me) something to cling to when we didn't have each other near was what convinced me. He needed it done.
The fact that the mere thought of it sent burst of utter arousal through my skin, warm fingers wrapping themselves around the darker places in my mind, urging me on was only a side effect. This is for him.
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I lean over once again and whisper to him, “You did so well today and I know it's not easy for you to keep such a tight control over it all. So tonight, I'm going to make you let go of it all. I'm going to make you scream and beg and cry and I'm going to be right there with you.”
His beautiful close for a second, still not meeting mine, but I can see the half-smile edging it's way onto his face as he tucks himself in closer to me. I know another part of him is searching my mind. Not sifting my thoughts like he does with those at work but tasting my mood and delving into my arousal so that his own may grow deeper.
At first I found this disconcerting but now I welcome his easily. I'd give him access to every part of me if he desired it. Sometimes I feel like I don't know who I am without him. Sometimes I feel like I want to simply pick him up and walk away from all of this, from everyone.
To save him this pain.
But I can't and here we are, gathering these gentle moments together like pieces of a puzzle and reminding ourselves that at least in all of this we have found each other.
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Eventually I can feel him loosen under my gentle caresses and I know that he's ready. I ease him to his feet.
“You remember what to say?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“Willow to stop.”
“And to rest or slow down?”
“Oak” Not that I'd ever go so far as to warrant him using them, but it's part of the ritual we had formed when preparing for a scene and was always asked well before any other action. He liked routines he could follow and it helped him get in the right head space. I lead him upstairs through the bedroom to the bathroom.
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I led him to the shower, another part of the ritual.
I kiss him sweetly on the side of the neck where the skin turns pale and hair is soft and short as it curves behind his ear. Trembling slightly, he leans into my touch, millimetre by millimetre until I can feel him resting gently against me, his head curled into the crook of my neck. I can feel his intake of breathe against my chest, and the warm air passing along the line of my jaw as he lets out a small sound, a needy whisper.
Easing my hand down the length of his neck, I grasp the first of the straps nestled between his shoulder blades. It slips free easily and I'm able to slide my hands down further to the next buckle located against his lover back and the last acting like a reverse belt. This harness he now wears is different from his old one, it's still designed to be almost impossible for him to remove on his own. But this design when worn under a jacket looks simply like a set of thick braces and a gun holster (not that he's ever be allowed a gun, but the illusion is there).
He also wears only wrist and ankle cuffs now as I was able to convince his caseworker that after the trauma he experienced, wearing a full harness would do more damage than good. We compromised. The embarrassment they'd face if the truth of that case was ever made public also helped my argument somewhat.
I still had to keep a set of thigh and arm restraints in my draw at work
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
After I've eased him out of the straps, I unbutton his shirt and pull it off his shoulders. The sudden touch of his skin against mine draws that ache of desire out further and I can't help moaning slightly. He moans too, an odd echo of my own from a moment earlier. It's still a little disconcerting to hear him mirroring me, it's a comfort thing for him and a common behaviour for Sera, but that doesn't make it any less eerie. But I ignore it, allowing him to think I didn't notice or didn't care.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
Pushing him back against the sink, I begin unzipping his pants. I have to crouch to pull them down over his knees and feet until finally he is free of them.
I place my lips on that tender place just above the curve of his hip and follow the line of the harness down between his legs, splitting them and easing the stiff strips away and down.
I hear a sigh from above, as if a great weight had been lifted. And if it had been anyone else, I wouldn't be surprised by this reaction to being released. But knowledge of his condition has led him to feel fearful when unrestrained, he dreads his own actions, he fears the damage he could, and has, done to people he loves. The guilt heavy and sickening, twisting him up inside until he can barely trust his own mind. All the progress we have made, seems like nothing when he practically begs me to keep him from hurting people.
I look up at him warily, worried what I might see. But the flush in his cheeks and the desire in his eyes gives him away. My concern turns to amusement almost instantly, well, I think to myself, that sigh must have been for the release of something else. The evidence sliding free as I ease him out of his underpants. I smile up at him in reward, and brush my hand down it's length, just once to show my interest, before shucking my clothes and guiding us both into the shower stall.
0.0.0.0.0.0.
First this.
This ritual of scrubbing away the grime of days past. Wash away the filth on his body before concentrating on his mind.
That I could reach inside his mind and sift though his memories, pluck out and clean those not even his, that haunt his dreams at night, and in my arms as he wept bitter salty tears. I wish I could clean out his mind, take a scalpel and cut away the imprints left by cruel men and women, by murderers who showed him their crimes, as we ask him to still, show themselves, through him.
And I wonder whether he'll survive more of this. Can he survive being who he is, doing what he does?
Sometimes I wonder if he hasn't died already, if we both have already been destroyed by all this filth, all this horror. That when we found each other we were both broken, scared and ripped apart.
What Sean took from me, what Spencer will take with him and what all that darkness we see every day corrupts. I know, without any doubt, I will not survive this alone. What's left of me will break apart and be blown away like the scraps they are.
It's as if we are two broken pieces of a whole, that someone in their cruelty ripped apart, stripped pieces from and burnt away.
We cannot be healed, I know that now.
But we can fit together.
Somehow Spencer knew, he saw that the pieces I still clutched desperately close to my chest were the pieces he was missing. And like a puzzle, we placed what was left on a table and managed to fit them together, seams lining up, colours fitting together until finally we had a whole.
Not what we had before but something new, something that was neither nor both, but simply there between us. A strange connection stretched taught between us, allowing us to go on and maybe if we can keep our pieces together, not let them take any more.
Maybe, I can hope, maybe we will survive this.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
I wash his body slowly, concentrating on covering every part of him, talking him through the process as it helps ease him down into the right head space.
“Can you feel the cloth here, against your thigh?”
I chose a rough cloth, one that on anyone else would be too harsh. But it helps him, makes him pay attention to the messages being sent to his brain. Instead of the murmuring, roaring voices, he can feel the cloth against his skin, the rough texture working free all the lingering traces from the days past. I tell him to concentrate on my voice, and listen to his body, to feel his arousal and soak himself in the warmth of the water flowing over his skin. Guiding him to focus on his body helps him out of his head and means that I need not use such high levels of pain to get through to him and pleasure helps as well.
We're learning slowly what works.
I had tried to use pleasure alone for a while, hoping that it was enough, that it could suffice. But he explained once again, in his quiet, gentle and firm way the truth. Pain lingered, the aching stinging jolts allow him to keep his tortured mind clear for longer. Pleasure, he explained, is momentary, wonderful but passing.
Pain lingers, pain lasts. Pain marks paths on which he can crawl back to reality, back to himself.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
Finally I wash his hair, running my fingers through it length and easing the water from the ends, watching it cascade down his back in soapy rivers. I massage his scalp, letting him rest against me once again.
“I love you like this” I tell him, “Affectionate and willing to let me touch you, I know it's hard but I love to touch you like this.” I run my hand across his belly, pulling him in tighter to me, “You are so beautiful, that I want touch all of you. I wish...” I cut myself off, knowing the pointlessness of the desire.
But he's there, turning in my arms, letting his actions speak for him.
He meets my eyes for the first time that night and draws me close, his lips so close I can feel his breathe brush over mine.
I try desperately not to show the sadness I'm feeling, but he knows. He leans close and kisses the side of my lips, chastely at first, as if seeking permission. My reaction, obvious enough that soon he has my mouth again against his, a gentle, hesitant passion has him sliding his tongue into my mouth and bringing with it release into careless desire. I give into the kiss, longing to draw him up to me and give us both release, to press my hands into his still wet skin and kiss my way down his chest till I'm on my knees, drawing him into my mouth and delivering that sweetest moment, taking him there until he's weak with it. Relaxed and easy, resting in my arms once again.
But he didn't ask for that. I agreed to give him something else, something stronger.
I pull out of the kiss and ease his chin up till our eyes meet once again.
“Ready?”
“Yes”
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
He lays me face down on our bed.
It's covered in a plastic sheet but he's put a soft blanket over it so all I feel is the warmth of it under me. And his hands guiding me into position. No pillow under my head this time, instead he guides my arms to rest under me, my forehead pressing just above my wrists.
I want so badly to reach around and pull him to me. Beg him to touch me again like he did in the shower. The air is so cold on my damp skin and he's not with me yet, I know he'll come back but for now I ache for the weight of the blankets I was surrounded in earlier. I want to curl up and sink into the stifling heat they offer.
I hate to lie here so exposed. And my heart is racing, my lungs contracting. Aaron, I want to beg, Aaron, come back to me. And there is nothing holding me there, holding me down or keeping me safe. Keeping him safe.
Put the cuffs on, I've asked him so many times. On nights like this, I've asked and he's refused.
'I trust you' he's said, brushing off my fears, 'I know you can control it. You won't hurt me'
And so far he's been right, the whispered had stayed whispers, and the nobodies had stayed nobodies. And the whole time I'd been with him, naked and somehow more than terrified and less than scared. I'd been ok, I'd felt myself slipping into a place different from the darkness where I usually fell. I fell somewhere infinitely more alive, more calm and somehow more real. Since that first night he'd guided me there, I knew I needed him.
So resisting the urge to move I wait, wait for him to give me whatever it is he's willing to give.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
The first thing I feel is his weight settle beside me and his warm hands run down my back, resting momentarily on the base of my spine.
“Spencer, you need to listen to me carefully. Tonight I need you not to move. Even when it hurts, you need to stay perfectly still. Nod if you understand”
I nod, ready.
He kisses a spot on each of my shoulder blades before he draws back and I feel first the cold of the metal digging into my skin and then the sting as flesh gives way.
I can't help but hiss a little through my teeth. That first moment, that first kiss of pain, that first jarring assault on my senses. My vision swims and I'm pressing my head tightly into my arms. God, I'm not used to this pain, the immediacy of my skin giving way and the blood seeping to the surface so I can feel it leaking slowly out of the wound and down my side to drip rhythmicly onto the blanket.
I gasp but remain perfectly still, I don't want to ruin this.
He draws the knife out, away from my spine and when he's done, he drops the knife beside me. His warm hands come to rest on either side of my head and his voice whispers into my ear.
“Breathe for me sweetheart.”And I do, obedience instantaneous “That's it. You're doing great. Nod when you're ready to go on”
When my heart stills and my vision clears I nod. Ready.
And the second cut is less jarring than the last, instead it's potent, and heavy, a weight pushing me down underwater. It's an immediate ache, an immediate shift from skin, to mind, to me, somewhere I'm sinking. But I'm not fighting, I'm relaxing, letting the rushing water wash over me. When I'm not here, I forget about this place a little, it looses colour, looses flavour.
But here I am, in a magnificent chamber of light and colour, that's somehow heavy and thick but full of music. My body is singing, it's telling me that it feels, it's alive.
Breathe, in and out, in and out. Let that rhythm be your base, in and out and sinking and singing along with all that music. I can feel him around me, beside me. Somehow we're walking through that chamber of heavy light and music and he has my hand. It's cutting a way across my shoulder blades but it's also here in mine, grasping me tight to him.
“Aaron,” I whisper, wanting to scream it out but I can't, I'm too caught up in it all. “Aaron, Aaron!”
“I know,” he tells me. “Keep breathing.”
And I do, and I shift towards him, pulling him towards the colours, the music. I pull him with me into this place. And together we watch it all shift around us, stripping us of all that is not essentially us. Stripping me back to my skin, my mind and my heart.
And suddenly I can feel him press into me again, another and another stripe of pain. Another and another caress.
He's taking me where we haven't walked before. Making changes that are forever, my skin is splitting and my mind is opening as well and everything is rushing out into the swell. I want to dance with him to the beat of the changes, but I don't want to move, I don't want him to stop.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
The liquid is running down his back, pooling red and thick. And I'm almost done. Almost finished this. I can feel him breathing raggedly underneath me, his fists clenched and and his body stiff. But I can feel him needing more as well, somehow, I can feel him inching his way inside my mind. I want this, he's telling me, follow me here, guide me here. And I do, I keep cutting until it's almost done, easing my knife in controlled strokes through his skin, deep enough to scar but not deep enough to do real damage. I'm careful but it's tenuous, he's loosing himself and I can feel myself going with him.
Just one more, I tell myself, one more and you're done. One more and the task is complete and you can give in to him, you can give over your mind and slide into that neither place between pleasure and pain. Join him there.
And I do. I complete the last cut and fall with him, gasping and grinding against him.
He rises and turns into my arms and the blood flows across his chest in red etches.
I pull him to me so his legs are around my waist and we're kissing. Physically kissing, harsh and alive. Sweat and blood combining till both our chests are strained pink. And tears I didn't know I'd shed glisten on his cheeks as I rub my cheek against his, I'm sobbing I realise. Like a child and we're kissing and that edge of pleasure is building.
0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.
That edge of pleasure is building as I'm surrounded by his arms. That edge we've walked together before now seems so much more definite, permanent. That when we finally cross it we'll both fall somewhere new, somewhere better.
And I want to beg him to touch me, use the blood, sweat and tears, use the pain, use the colours and heavy music and the fact that somehow it's raining outside and I've only just noticed.
PLEASE! Take us both over that definite edge.
Then I realise, he can't move, can't act. It's up to me to guide us there. It's us now.
And I reach down, between us and with a willing hand thrust us both over that edge. That gasping, moaning, cascade of sensation, where pain meets pleasure and he's shaking in my arms, letting me wipe away the tears.
And he looks at me, our gazes meeting and a knowledge etched in the space between.
“My beautiful Seraphim, my slave to that great power” He whispers, “I drew you wings.”
I know it's been a while since I've written in this verse so I thought a little reintroduction of sorts and a little scene between my two lovers might help gets things rolling again. PLEASE COMMENT because I almost let this story fade except that wonderful people (you know who you are!!!) nominated it for an award so I felt I should thank them by writing some more...it's unbeta'd and very rough but I hope you all liked it...what do you think of the possible way it might head? Yay or Nay?!??!?!?!
ps. did you all get my little Seraphim thing or should I have explained the history?!?!? For those who don't know, the Seraphim are a race of Angels God created who were the most treasured, but as all Angels are, slaves to him whim. The nickname for people with Reid's condition is Sera or Serpahim.
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