(no subject)
Title: Mightier Than The Sword 2
Genre: Fanfiction- The Hollows
Rating: I rate everything NC-17 OR HIGHER just to be safe. I'm not your normal little cookie, and it comes out in ink like poison on the page.
Pairing: Rachel/Al
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the words rattling around my twisted little brain. All recognizable characters/plot points belong to Kim Harrison. There may or may not be spoilers- I don't give spoiler warnings by piece or chapter, so if you haven't read all published books in the series, you may want to skip anything I write.
WARNINGS: I am hardwired for tragic, erotic, sometimes frighteningly dark story-telling. I seldom write anything that is less than an NC-17, never anything less than an R. MOST of my work is even heavier on any/all of the following material- sex consensual, coerced and completely nonconsensual, blood/gore, bizarre magical concepts, a stockpile of torture and horror developed from childhood, a strong background in BDSM and other kinky things, profanity, non-canon plotlines, complete disregard for social norms and niceties, and a strongly purple tint to my prose. I write any and all imaginable sexual pairings- and a few that I'm pretty sure are illegal, or would be if they were possible on this planet. Occasionally I'm in a humorous mood and Cthulu kin make an appearance. I'm also addicted to feedback, the more I get, the more I write.
I couldn't breathe, couldn't even scream out my frustration as Al dragged me into the line and spilled me back out onto the shattered stone of his kitchen floor. I lay on the ground, gasping for air as sharp bits of rumble dug into my back and hips.
"I would advise you to get up the floor, Rachel." My demon folded his arms across his chest, his face still tight and hard. "Unless you want me to join you."
I scrambled backwards on my hands and feet, still trying to draw breath, my eyes involuntarily going to the front of his doeskin breeches. I did not want to find out if that was all padding, or if the painfully obvious bulge was proof of just how demonic Al really was. He growled, and took a step towards me. I cringed, waiting for the blow that never came.
"Get. Up." I felt the heat from his hands as he snatched at my t-shirt, dragging me to my feet. I stumbled, one ankle twisting painfully enough that I saw sparkles at the edge of my vision. I was trembling, and he made a low sound before releasing me so abruptly I nearly fell again.
"Find a broom. Clean this mess up. I won't have my kitchen looking like some hobo lives here."
Al sounded almost normal, peeved and arrogant, as he turned on his heel and walked away from me. I gaped, completely disoriented by his sudden change of mood, and he shot me a quick glance over his shoulder as he stepped onto the screaming woman's face.
"Hurry up, student. You only have about eight hours before the sun rises."
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Al stalked across his bedroom, stripping his clothes off methodically as he moved. He left them where they fell- except for the boots he had kicked off immediately into the alcove that served as a nominal closet. His skin was itching, dried blood caked under his fingernails and flaking off his wrists. He turned on the water in his shower without bothering with the lights, not wanting to see any more horrors tonight.
No amount of blood and pain could wash away the imaes burned into his mind. He was furiously aroused, and sickened by every memory he had ripped out of the black witch's head. He was haunted, he thought coldly. Haunted or cursed- there wasn't much to choose between the two- by the rememebred feel of Rachel's skin under someone else's hands, someone else's mouth. He growled, scrubbing his bloody hands over his face, trying to wipe out the imagery. He could taste copper and redwood on his skin, and nearly gagged.
He stepped under the needling spray of the shower and braced his palms against the wall,
Why her? She was nothing, comparatively speaking, special. So her blood could kindle demon magic. So he wanted to fuck her. Neither of those little facts were worth the humiliation of this evening. He had lost his dignity and acted like some common street brawler, all over some redheaded bint who he would probably burn to cinders the first time he buried his cock in her.
The cock in question leaped in response to his quickened pulse. Damn her. Damn her.
There was no way he could face her in this condition. There was a limit, evben to his control. He growled, turning to lean back against the wall, and took the problem in hand. His fingers wrapped tightly around his erection, squeezing impatiently against the straining flesh. He circled the base with the forefinger and thumb of one hand, holding the skin taut as he stroked with the other hand. Brisk, almost painful strokes, torturing the sensitive flesh with the calloused pads of his fingers, the roughness of his palm. It almost hurt, and he hissed between his teeth, relishing the pain that cleared his head.
He let go of his cock abruptly, cursing under his breath. He stroked his thumb across the engorged head and thought of how Rachel's mouth would look wrapped around it, those pink lips wet and swollen, gleaming with the first pearly drops of come and his own saliva- a shudder ran through him that had nothing to do with the water and he slid his hand along himself, fantasizing about his itchy-witch bound and naked, kneeling at his feet in tears.
A low groan found its way from his lips as he thought about her, stretched wanton and screaming on his sheets, of the sweet scent of her hair and the smooth, warm skin of her breasts and belly. He wondered what she would look like wrapped from nipples to knees with thin red welts, how she would twist and dance beneath a whip. His balls tightened and tingled and he gasped as his climax spilled in a scalding wave over his fingers, onto the porcelain to be rinsed away down the drain. His hand moved half-heartedly as his cock as it softened, milking the last dregs of the fantasy into an empty void of exhaustion.
He scrubbed the rest of his body roughly, scouring away the blood and dirt from his exertions, and stepped out of the shower. Wrapping himself in a towel, he slumped into the armchair before his fireplace, reaching for the bottle of brandy on the table nearby. It was going to be a very, very long night.
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This one is short and, well, not sweet. But progressive. My muse decided to hijack me into three other stories, including an original piece, and so Al and his little hanmg-ups have been simmering away on the back burner. I have another chapter or three roughed out, but I'm struggling to tone them down.
As I said- no promises on the whole non-con thing. Al really wants to do naughty, naughty things to lil miss. I'm bargaining with him to tone it down.
Also, there may or may not be Trench implications in the future. It's nibbling at the edges of my brain. We'll see where it goes.