Fics I Would Write--PGP Blake/Avon angst (R for violence, only brief mention of sex)
From Suggest Three Fics I Totally WOULD Write (gimme! I only got one so far! *sniff*:( )
This one for blakefancier. I don't know if it fulfilled the request perfectly, because it's a prelude to what she requested:
BHB/Avon-- where Blake makes Avon pay by making him his sex-slave.
I didn't actually get to the sex-slave part. This mentions them having indulged in BDSM before, there's nothing more explicit than that. It's PGP, and very dark, rated R because of violence, no actual sex. Just how I'd imagine them post-GP. Thanks for the inspiration, Zenia, I really should write more dark PGP to balance out all the fluff in the fandom...
The cell door opened, and Blake walked in. Blake--the man, or a ghost? It had been so many days Avon didn't know any more, nor did he care. Would a ghost respond to words? He got up from his cot, and approached the phantasm.
"Blake, I..."
Hands in his hair, his jacket, his face hitting the stone wall, something cracking, pain and tears and blood blinding him, choking him...
"Shut. Up!"
A kick, two, three, in his gut, no matter how he curled up, Blake kept kicking him, not letting him breathe, not letting him rest.
"I don't want your fucking apologies."
Blake turned him on his back, one foot on his chest. Avon couldn't open his eyes, still brimming with tears and blood, he was still coughing, still gasping for air, trying to form words.
"Look at me. Look at me!"
And Avon did. He saw no pity in Blake's eyes--not that he expected any. Maybe before, maybe years ago, but he saw there was none left. Just burning hatred. He spread his hands in a gesture of surrender, and did not speak.
"Good."
Blake knelt down, one booted foot still on Avon's chest, and wiped Avon's face with a dirty handkerchief.
"That's better. Now you know where we stand."
Blake threw off the handkerchief and closed his hand around Avon's throat.
"I could kill you right now. And you know that, don't you, Avon?"
He didn't answer. He knew any words he had right now would only make things worse. This Blake, with his different voice, different eyes, different manner--this was no time for cat and mouse-play, this was no time for games. He couldn't help but smile--a psychopath, Blake, too? That's certainly what he saw when Blake returned his smile, just as cold, just as empty.
"Yes, I think you do. I think we understand each other."
Blake leaned closer, loosening the grip of his hand slightly, and lowered his voice to a calm, smooth whisper.
"This is the last game we'll ever play, Avon. And this time, I am the one who sets the rules. If you break them, oh, trust me, Avon--" and he shook his head with mock pity"--you'll find even death preferable to disobeying me."
Avon had no illusions. He knew exactly what Blake meant--years ago, they would've indulged in sexual powerplay, dominance and submission, to release tension, and it had worked, almost to the end, when there was not enough trust to be had, too much danger--and the tension built up, as did the violence. Without release. This, he mused, must be Blake's way of getting that ultimate release. After Avon's own attempt at final release--murder and suicide--had failed.
Blake stood up, and nudged Avon with his boot.
"Get up. I'm sending in Deva with a medikit."
Blake smiled, as Avon balanced himself against the wall.
"After all, I want you to be in full health before we begin."
Avon winced, and faced Blake with a bitter smile, hysterical laughter creeping into his voice.
"You've taken death away from me. What more *is* there for you to take? You'll get nothing, Blake, because there is nothing *left*. Nothing."
Yet, inside, Avon felt a sliver of cold fear in his gut. Him? Fear? Perhaps here, right now, he had found something to fear, for the first time in his life.
Blake's voice was low, dark and dangerous. He ran a dirty fingernail down Avon's cheekbone.
"Oh, Avon... even you don't know it yet. How much there is still left for me to take. And I shall enjoy every last drop, until you'll be begging for death, and even then I'll go on enjoying you. You shall see. Soon."
And then he was gone, and the lights were out, and Avon was left alone, hugging his fear to himself.
I don't know if I should continue further than that, because then it'd be just squicky torture and not actual hot sex, just, well, violence. I think leaving it right there where it ends is much more evil, Y/N?
Gimme more! The fic mojo is still there, but still at half-mast! Gimme prompt-Viagra!
This one for blakefancier. I don't know if it fulfilled the request perfectly, because it's a prelude to what she requested:
BHB/Avon-- where Blake makes Avon pay by making him his sex-slave.
I didn't actually get to the sex-slave part. This mentions them having indulged in BDSM before, there's nothing more explicit than that. It's PGP, and very dark, rated R because of violence, no actual sex. Just how I'd imagine them post-GP. Thanks for the inspiration, Zenia, I really should write more dark PGP to balance out all the fluff in the fandom...
The cell door opened, and Blake walked in. Blake--the man, or a ghost? It had been so many days Avon didn't know any more, nor did he care. Would a ghost respond to words? He got up from his cot, and approached the phantasm.
"Blake, I..."
Hands in his hair, his jacket, his face hitting the stone wall, something cracking, pain and tears and blood blinding him, choking him...
"Shut. Up!"
A kick, two, three, in his gut, no matter how he curled up, Blake kept kicking him, not letting him breathe, not letting him rest.
"I don't want your fucking apologies."
Blake turned him on his back, one foot on his chest. Avon couldn't open his eyes, still brimming with tears and blood, he was still coughing, still gasping for air, trying to form words.
"Look at me. Look at me!"
And Avon did. He saw no pity in Blake's eyes--not that he expected any. Maybe before, maybe years ago, but he saw there was none left. Just burning hatred. He spread his hands in a gesture of surrender, and did not speak.
"Good."
Blake knelt down, one booted foot still on Avon's chest, and wiped Avon's face with a dirty handkerchief.
"That's better. Now you know where we stand."
Blake threw off the handkerchief and closed his hand around Avon's throat.
"I could kill you right now. And you know that, don't you, Avon?"
He didn't answer. He knew any words he had right now would only make things worse. This Blake, with his different voice, different eyes, different manner--this was no time for cat and mouse-play, this was no time for games. He couldn't help but smile--a psychopath, Blake, too? That's certainly what he saw when Blake returned his smile, just as cold, just as empty.
"Yes, I think you do. I think we understand each other."
Blake leaned closer, loosening the grip of his hand slightly, and lowered his voice to a calm, smooth whisper.
"This is the last game we'll ever play, Avon. And this time, I am the one who sets the rules. If you break them, oh, trust me, Avon--" and he shook his head with mock pity"--you'll find even death preferable to disobeying me."
Avon had no illusions. He knew exactly what Blake meant--years ago, they would've indulged in sexual powerplay, dominance and submission, to release tension, and it had worked, almost to the end, when there was not enough trust to be had, too much danger--and the tension built up, as did the violence. Without release. This, he mused, must be Blake's way of getting that ultimate release. After Avon's own attempt at final release--murder and suicide--had failed.
Blake stood up, and nudged Avon with his boot.
"Get up. I'm sending in Deva with a medikit."
Blake smiled, as Avon balanced himself against the wall.
"After all, I want you to be in full health before we begin."
Avon winced, and faced Blake with a bitter smile, hysterical laughter creeping into his voice.
"You've taken death away from me. What more *is* there for you to take? You'll get nothing, Blake, because there is nothing *left*. Nothing."
Yet, inside, Avon felt a sliver of cold fear in his gut. Him? Fear? Perhaps here, right now, he had found something to fear, for the first time in his life.
Blake's voice was low, dark and dangerous. He ran a dirty fingernail down Avon's cheekbone.
"Oh, Avon... even you don't know it yet. How much there is still left for me to take. And I shall enjoy every last drop, until you'll be begging for death, and even then I'll go on enjoying you. You shall see. Soon."
And then he was gone, and the lights were out, and Avon was left alone, hugging his fear to himself.
I don't know if I should continue further than that, because then it'd be just squicky torture and not actual hot sex, just, well, violence. I think leaving it right there where it ends is much more evil, Y/N?
Gimme more! The fic mojo is still there, but still at half-mast! Gimme prompt-Viagra!