kink_bingo fill: Awake (sleepy/unconscious)
Title: Awake
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: sleepy/unconscious
Players: OCs/Gilbert Brule, Derick Brassard
Content notes: non-consensual sex with multiple partners; drugged/somnolent states
-
He only ever comes for the music.
Pounding, pulsing, thrumming through his body like a physical wave of energy. Getting lost in the deep reverberations of the drums; riding the subtle tones of the bass guitar. He would tuck himself into a corner of the club and nurse a drink-just one, only ever one-and let the music wash over him in waves. Sometimes, if he was in the mood, he would join the chaos in the mosh pit, losing himself to the tumult of bodies and sound.
He never had more than one drink. He never went into the back rooms, with the white lines on glass tables, or the tiny packets of pills passed from hand to hand. He never partook in the tangle of bodies on couches and chairs and floors; never had any interest in doing so. He only ever came for the music.
It made his current situation, bent backward over a divan with his legs spread obscenely wide on the cushions, all the more perplexing.
Butterflies in his skull. Flashing lights of blue and gold blending into sickly green, and then fading to black. His limbs feel heavy, cast in bronze, and he doesn’t have the strength to lift them. His tongue is fat and his mouth is dry, and as he tries to mumble some form of something, hands pick him up and rearrange his body to their liking.
Low coffee table. Arms and legs sprawled slack, head hanging off the side. Nimble fingers pick open the front of his faded blue jeans, pull the black cotton shirt from his torso; yank his pants and boxers down around his ankles in one sudden move. A suffocating knot of cold settles at the bottom of his stomach, churning in acid and whatever it was that is making him so sleepy.
“So pretty,” a voice croons, high-pitched and grating. He wants to punch them, because he’s taken enough shit for his looks already, because everyone knows you’re not supposed to be pretty in hockey. Somewhere between brain and fist the command to lash out gets halted, rerouted, mixed up, and he can only mumble something incoherent and stupid as hands part his thighs. There are too many of them-too many hands for one human being. On the backs of his thighs, supporting his head, stroking the flat panes of his chest.
Fingers cold and slick press into him and he arches, whining low and soft; keening quietly and unable to fight back.
“Likes that, doesn’t he?” the voice chuckles, and he wants to cry; blames that urge on whatever whoever slipped him. He wants the music back. He can hear it, faint and quiet, but the sound is too distant to offer him its usual soothing comfort.
The hand supporting his head drops him, abruptly, and he sees stars for a moment before they’re replaced with a length of hard flesh, gripped by the same hand. Upside-down the sight is bizarre, nauseating, and he tries to pick his head back up but the tendons in his neck are completely unresponsive. He watches, blank-eyed and empty, as the body moves closer; as bitter tang presses against his lips, musk heavy in his nose. Whatever keeps his limbs slack seems to have helped with his other muscles as well, gag reflex noticeably absent as the blunt tip scrapes against the back of his throat.
The only distraction is something slick and hard nudging at his entrance, sending a wash of panic through his drugged system. He lets out a gurgling cry around the flesh in his mouth as painful thickness slides inside him, steady and inexorable and hurting. The hands pat his shoulders; smooth across his ribs. He imagines them bodiless, floating in midair, there to torment him and nothing more.
Little licks of inadvertent pleasure curl in his stomach as he’s pounded between the two, and he tries to focus only on that. Slipping into the state of half-consciousness that the drug elicits, unable to keep his eyes open with the effort it entails and his body unresponsive, he curls in on himself: wrapping himself in the distant sound of music and the faint hope that he’ll soon be left alone.
“Get the fuck away from him!”
Shouting. A familiar voice, achingly welcome as everything touching him and everything inside of him suddenly disappears, leaving him lying sprawled limp across the table.
“Hey, calm down, dude! He likes it.”
“You-he’s drugged!”
“Naw, look, he doesn’t even know what’s going on. Totally out of it,” the voice says, and he wants to cry because he’s not.
“That-how does that-get the fuck out of here. I swear to god, if you come near him again I will kill you.”
There’s the sound of scrambling, of the door slamming, and then a calloused palm cups his cheek, warm and unlike the disembodied soft hands of before.
“Gil,” Derick’s voice whispers. “Gil?”
He wants to nod. Wants to show some kind of recognition, to have some form of control over his body, but there is none to be had.
Derick gathers him in his arms, and over the sound of his soft, broken reassurances, Gil tries to listen to the music.
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: sleepy/unconscious
Players: OCs/Gilbert Brule, Derick Brassard
Content notes: non-consensual sex with multiple partners; drugged/somnolent states
-
He only ever comes for the music.
Pounding, pulsing, thrumming through his body like a physical wave of energy. Getting lost in the deep reverberations of the drums; riding the subtle tones of the bass guitar. He would tuck himself into a corner of the club and nurse a drink-just one, only ever one-and let the music wash over him in waves. Sometimes, if he was in the mood, he would join the chaos in the mosh pit, losing himself to the tumult of bodies and sound.
He never had more than one drink. He never went into the back rooms, with the white lines on glass tables, or the tiny packets of pills passed from hand to hand. He never partook in the tangle of bodies on couches and chairs and floors; never had any interest in doing so. He only ever came for the music.
It made his current situation, bent backward over a divan with his legs spread obscenely wide on the cushions, all the more perplexing.
Butterflies in his skull. Flashing lights of blue and gold blending into sickly green, and then fading to black. His limbs feel heavy, cast in bronze, and he doesn’t have the strength to lift them. His tongue is fat and his mouth is dry, and as he tries to mumble some form of something, hands pick him up and rearrange his body to their liking.
Low coffee table. Arms and legs sprawled slack, head hanging off the side. Nimble fingers pick open the front of his faded blue jeans, pull the black cotton shirt from his torso; yank his pants and boxers down around his ankles in one sudden move. A suffocating knot of cold settles at the bottom of his stomach, churning in acid and whatever it was that is making him so sleepy.
“So pretty,” a voice croons, high-pitched and grating. He wants to punch them, because he’s taken enough shit for his looks already, because everyone knows you’re not supposed to be pretty in hockey. Somewhere between brain and fist the command to lash out gets halted, rerouted, mixed up, and he can only mumble something incoherent and stupid as hands part his thighs. There are too many of them-too many hands for one human being. On the backs of his thighs, supporting his head, stroking the flat panes of his chest.
Fingers cold and slick press into him and he arches, whining low and soft; keening quietly and unable to fight back.
“Likes that, doesn’t he?” the voice chuckles, and he wants to cry; blames that urge on whatever whoever slipped him. He wants the music back. He can hear it, faint and quiet, but the sound is too distant to offer him its usual soothing comfort.
The hand supporting his head drops him, abruptly, and he sees stars for a moment before they’re replaced with a length of hard flesh, gripped by the same hand. Upside-down the sight is bizarre, nauseating, and he tries to pick his head back up but the tendons in his neck are completely unresponsive. He watches, blank-eyed and empty, as the body moves closer; as bitter tang presses against his lips, musk heavy in his nose. Whatever keeps his limbs slack seems to have helped with his other muscles as well, gag reflex noticeably absent as the blunt tip scrapes against the back of his throat.
The only distraction is something slick and hard nudging at his entrance, sending a wash of panic through his drugged system. He lets out a gurgling cry around the flesh in his mouth as painful thickness slides inside him, steady and inexorable and hurting. The hands pat his shoulders; smooth across his ribs. He imagines them bodiless, floating in midair, there to torment him and nothing more.
Little licks of inadvertent pleasure curl in his stomach as he’s pounded between the two, and he tries to focus only on that. Slipping into the state of half-consciousness that the drug elicits, unable to keep his eyes open with the effort it entails and his body unresponsive, he curls in on himself: wrapping himself in the distant sound of music and the faint hope that he’ll soon be left alone.
“Get the fuck away from him!”
Shouting. A familiar voice, achingly welcome as everything touching him and everything inside of him suddenly disappears, leaving him lying sprawled limp across the table.
“Hey, calm down, dude! He likes it.”
“You-he’s drugged!”
“Naw, look, he doesn’t even know what’s going on. Totally out of it,” the voice says, and he wants to cry because he’s not.
“That-how does that-get the fuck out of here. I swear to god, if you come near him again I will kill you.”
There’s the sound of scrambling, of the door slamming, and then a calloused palm cups his cheek, warm and unlike the disembodied soft hands of before.
“Gil,” Derick’s voice whispers. “Gil?”
He wants to nod. Wants to show some kind of recognition, to have some form of control over his body, but there is none to be had.
Derick gathers him in his arms, and over the sound of his soft, broken reassurances, Gil tries to listen to the music.