fic(let): boundaries (mass effect, saren/nihlus) | 14A
boundaries
mass effect, saren/nihlus
1020 words
14A
summary: On a routine Citadel visit, Nihlus pisses off his mentor and is appropriately reprimanded.
warnings: Dubcon without any actual sexytimes; Nihlus' dirty mouth; punching.
A year and a half into his Spectre evaluation, Nihlus is taken on a brief and routine visit to the Citadel.
Nihlus has been with his mentor for more days than he'd care to think about at this point. The visit is, as promised, brief: they enter the Citadel Tower, and Saren shares words with the Council-- years later, Nihlus won't remember what they talked about besides that it involved a human man, whether it was even important or not. Privately, he suspects Saren takes these infrequent visits simply because he knows the Council likes to check up on their most favored pet.
Had the visit played out differently, Nihlus might have been formally introduced to the Council members for the first time. However, what actually ends up happening is that he calls Saren a bigoted, myopic bastard in front of the Council and the many assorted politicians and military figures nearby.
It happens two weeks before Saren is supposed to confirm his evaluation as complete. He doesn't know that, though.
--
Little more than seven minutes later, Nihlus gets what's coming for him.
The first thing he becomes acutely conscious of is that he's being backed up against the nearest wall-- well, backed maybe isn't the best word. More shoved. Saren is big, bigger than him by a longshot, and he's crowded in until his back hits smooth metal. "Saren-- stop it, you fucking prick--"
He doesn't expect it will have any effect: his head feels like something's been pushed between his ears, and it's a weak effort on his part. The chilled glare that meets him seems liable to pin him back all on its own. "Why in the world should I, Nihlus?"
They're barely out of the Tower: Nihlus recalls being all but dragged out of the Council Chambers after the meeting adjourned, the elevator ride down to the Presidium a blur of twisted wrists and his head hitting the wall, talons against his jaw, digging into his fringe. When they exit, the bigger turian gripped his arm yet again and dragged him roughly off to the nearest location that was safe enough-- or as close as one could get in the Presidium-- from prying eyes.
Saren takes Nihlus' wrists in his hands, bringing them up and pinning them back against the wall. Nihlus is too dumbfounded to protest or so much as twitch in his grip. "It's-- unprofessional, spirits Saren, get off me, I will not fucking take it back--" Through what may or may not be a concussion, his ability to bullshit is wearing pretty goddamned thin and he tenses, working his jaw. He's grasping at straws: he knows there's absolutely nothing he can do at this point to make Saren stop, knew that as soon as the Spectre punched him in the face on a blasted Citadel elevator. Saren wants to prove a point, and prove a point he will, even if Nihlus bleeds for it.
"Yes." His mentor's eyes are fucking deadly right now. "Yes. It must look incredibly unprofessional on your part, getting pinned to the wall by your superior. What you did in front of the Council was unprofessional, and here you are, swearing at me like a green little cadet." Suddenly Nihlus feels a thigh pushing his knees open, pressing up, and he inhales sharply. "Yes, you're being unprofessional. I'm sure this is all very embarrassing for you."
"Saren." His voice cracks. He wants to say it: what the fuck are you doing? What the fuck am I doing? But his throat feels constricted under the heavy weight of those dark, maddening eyes, and all he can do is stare back, shivering, pushing, angry, spooked. He doesn't even remember why he did it now: all he can think about is the static pulse building inside his head.
Saren's leg moves between his, all firm unyielding pressure. Involuntarily, Nihlus' hips rock against it, and he lets out a slow breath.
He feels his arms being shifted. Disoriented, his vision wavers like a faulty signal, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to dispel the feeling as Saren takes both his wrists in one hand: the other, now free, wraps and presses against the soft flesh of his throat.
He feels like a gutted fish. Almost all his weight is on his arms, except for the pressure between his legs, the pressure that's making him go up as high onto his toes as his feet will support. A curse starts on his tongue, but the hand at his throat squeezes tight and quick and he gags.
"Your manners are... lacking." Saren's voice. His eyes snap open, and he weakly twists against the older turian. His insides feel warm, too warm: every movement that presses him down against Saren's thigh sends a jolt of swollen ache through his groin. The Presidium is large and wide-open, even in its most secluded corners, and he knows it's likely someone has seen them by now. He shouldn't be turned on by this-- isn't, the least muddled parts of his brain reason, but the beating in his chest that's neither fear nor adrenaline says otherwise.
"We'll work on that. You will never embarrass me like that again, Nihlus."
And Saren drops him. Nihlus' legs support him for maybe a nanosecond before they give out and he crumples to the floor, jarring his knees, steadying himself with a hand on the floor as he simply breathes, ragged and humiliated and uncomfortably hot all over.
Clipped footsteps sound against the floor, and he watches as Saren walks off. Through the ringing in his ears and the blood at the back of his throat, Nihlus finds himself standing on shaky legs, cursing and swearing, steadying himself against the wall until he's convince he'd neither throw up nor pass out. Years later, he still won't understand why he does it: why the animal instinct in his brain is so quick to make him roll over onto his back and beg like a dog for Saren, why he'll always fucking come back for more.
After several minutes, he follows.
-
mass effect, saren/nihlus
1020 words
14A
summary: On a routine Citadel visit, Nihlus pisses off his mentor and is appropriately reprimanded.
warnings: Dubcon without any actual sexytimes; Nihlus' dirty mouth; punching.
A year and a half into his Spectre evaluation, Nihlus is taken on a brief and routine visit to the Citadel.
Nihlus has been with his mentor for more days than he'd care to think about at this point. The visit is, as promised, brief: they enter the Citadel Tower, and Saren shares words with the Council-- years later, Nihlus won't remember what they talked about besides that it involved a human man, whether it was even important or not. Privately, he suspects Saren takes these infrequent visits simply because he knows the Council likes to check up on their most favored pet.
Had the visit played out differently, Nihlus might have been formally introduced to the Council members for the first time. However, what actually ends up happening is that he calls Saren a bigoted, myopic bastard in front of the Council and the many assorted politicians and military figures nearby.
It happens two weeks before Saren is supposed to confirm his evaluation as complete. He doesn't know that, though.
--
Little more than seven minutes later, Nihlus gets what's coming for him.
The first thing he becomes acutely conscious of is that he's being backed up against the nearest wall-- well, backed maybe isn't the best word. More shoved. Saren is big, bigger than him by a longshot, and he's crowded in until his back hits smooth metal. "Saren-- stop it, you fucking prick--"
He doesn't expect it will have any effect: his head feels like something's been pushed between his ears, and it's a weak effort on his part. The chilled glare that meets him seems liable to pin him back all on its own. "Why in the world should I, Nihlus?"
They're barely out of the Tower: Nihlus recalls being all but dragged out of the Council Chambers after the meeting adjourned, the elevator ride down to the Presidium a blur of twisted wrists and his head hitting the wall, talons against his jaw, digging into his fringe. When they exit, the bigger turian gripped his arm yet again and dragged him roughly off to the nearest location that was safe enough-- or as close as one could get in the Presidium-- from prying eyes.
Saren takes Nihlus' wrists in his hands, bringing them up and pinning them back against the wall. Nihlus is too dumbfounded to protest or so much as twitch in his grip. "It's-- unprofessional, spirits Saren, get off me, I will not fucking take it back--" Through what may or may not be a concussion, his ability to bullshit is wearing pretty goddamned thin and he tenses, working his jaw. He's grasping at straws: he knows there's absolutely nothing he can do at this point to make Saren stop, knew that as soon as the Spectre punched him in the face on a blasted Citadel elevator. Saren wants to prove a point, and prove a point he will, even if Nihlus bleeds for it.
"Yes." His mentor's eyes are fucking deadly right now. "Yes. It must look incredibly unprofessional on your part, getting pinned to the wall by your superior. What you did in front of the Council was unprofessional, and here you are, swearing at me like a green little cadet." Suddenly Nihlus feels a thigh pushing his knees open, pressing up, and he inhales sharply. "Yes, you're being unprofessional. I'm sure this is all very embarrassing for you."
"Saren." His voice cracks. He wants to say it: what the fuck are you doing? What the fuck am I doing? But his throat feels constricted under the heavy weight of those dark, maddening eyes, and all he can do is stare back, shivering, pushing, angry, spooked. He doesn't even remember why he did it now: all he can think about is the static pulse building inside his head.
Saren's leg moves between his, all firm unyielding pressure. Involuntarily, Nihlus' hips rock against it, and he lets out a slow breath.
He feels his arms being shifted. Disoriented, his vision wavers like a faulty signal, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to dispel the feeling as Saren takes both his wrists in one hand: the other, now free, wraps and presses against the soft flesh of his throat.
He feels like a gutted fish. Almost all his weight is on his arms, except for the pressure between his legs, the pressure that's making him go up as high onto his toes as his feet will support. A curse starts on his tongue, but the hand at his throat squeezes tight and quick and he gags.
"Your manners are... lacking." Saren's voice. His eyes snap open, and he weakly twists against the older turian. His insides feel warm, too warm: every movement that presses him down against Saren's thigh sends a jolt of swollen ache through his groin. The Presidium is large and wide-open, even in its most secluded corners, and he knows it's likely someone has seen them by now. He shouldn't be turned on by this-- isn't, the least muddled parts of his brain reason, but the beating in his chest that's neither fear nor adrenaline says otherwise.
"We'll work on that. You will never embarrass me like that again, Nihlus."
And Saren drops him. Nihlus' legs support him for maybe a nanosecond before they give out and he crumples to the floor, jarring his knees, steadying himself with a hand on the floor as he simply breathes, ragged and humiliated and uncomfortably hot all over.
Clipped footsteps sound against the floor, and he watches as Saren walks off. Through the ringing in his ears and the blood at the back of his throat, Nihlus finds himself standing on shaky legs, cursing and swearing, steadying himself against the wall until he's convince he'd neither throw up nor pass out. Years later, he still won't understand why he does it: why the animal instinct in his brain is so quick to make him roll over onto his back and beg like a dog for Saren, why he'll always fucking come back for more.
After several minutes, he follows.
-