#376 - [FIC] Needles at Your Nerve Ends (Fischer/Eames)
Title: Needles at Your Nerve Ends
Word Count: 1,580
Pairing: Fischer/Eames, a bit of Yusuf/Eames
Rating: R
Summary: Eames knows that voice, would know it anywhere, but the name of the man it belongs to dances just out of reach, his fingers too thick and clumsy to snatch it back.
Warnings: non-con, rope bondage, loads and loads of guilt
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Title and cut text are taken from “The Enemy Within” by Rush.
Author's Note: For the_azure_blue, who requested a Fischer revenge fic with shibari and an extra helping of helplessness. I wasn't able to work Saito/Fischer in there, but I'll make it up to you, I swear! ♥
Eames comes to with a wave of nausea that seems to radiate outward from his temples, the interference patterns rippling into one another to create a hot spike at the base of his skull. Pain trickles down the taut curve of his spine with the sweat, drenching him in it until he feels nothing but the dull ache of it everywhere and groans against the sandpaper in his throat.
He blinks sluggishly and tries to speak. Saliva follows his unintelligible mumbling, slicking his chin. He can’t see an inch in front of his face, but his hearing is perfectly intact.
“That would be the paralytic.”
A man’s voice, calm and quiet and close to his cheek. Warm air puffs out against his clammy skin, droplets of moisture that prick like agony with the migraine that’s taken hold of his head. Eames moans and his own voice, inside his head with the pain, is even worse, amplified a hundred fold. He swallows the sound and tries to orient himself to where he’s kneeling on the floor.
“It should be wearing off soon.” The man is still crouched in front of him. “Sorry about that.”
There is no remorse there, nothing but a crisp, flat inflection that raises the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck with a whisper of recognition. He knows that voice, would know it anywhere, but the name of the man it belongs to dances just out of reach, his fingers too thick and clumsy to snatch it back. Sensation bleeds back into his limbs with unpleasant pinpricks.
As if on cue, the man speaks again. “I don’t recommend struggling when the feeling comes back. Most of those knots will slip if you move too much.”
The voice is further away this time, somewhere off to his left. Knots? Eames shifts experimentally and groans at the sharp tug across his shoulders, paralleled by the dull throbbing in his knees. It feels like concrete, digging into the bare flesh of his legs. Bit by bit he becomes aware of the lines of pressure crossed all over his body.
It takes the brush of the man’s sleeve on his skin before Eames realizes he’s naked under the network of ropes. Fingers grip his chin and he swallows the sick that burns up into his throat.
“Here,” the man says, holding something up to his lips. It’s cold and smooth-a glass.
His hand cradles Eames’ skull, helping tilt his head back so he can drink. He gulps it thirstily, more concerned with not being able to see than the possibility of there being anything but water in that glass. The man takes it away and Eames hears only the sharp clink as he sets it aside.
Every brush of the man’s hand over his face makes him shudder, leaves him fighting the urge to sick up. Eames swears he can feel every tiny groove in the man’s fingertips, each raking over his raw, frayed nerve ends.
He blinks his eyes again as if that might make his vision come flooding back, but there is only darkness. He’s not blindfolded, that much he knows. There is no pressure against his eyelashes when he blinks.
His voice is hoarse, but clear enough. “Did you blind me?”
The man is close enough for Eames to taste his metallic exhalations. “Only temporarily.”
“Why?”
“So you would know what it’s like to have your eyes open and still see nothing of the world around you,” the man says readily. His voice sounds more familiar than ever, but Eames is no longer sure he wants to know whose it is. The man seems, again, to pick up on his thoughts. “I would introduce myself, but I think you remember me.”
Eames shakes his head, brain rattling around in his skull like a lead weight. The man touches his cheek, sending the pain flaring up again. “I remembered you, Eames, better than any of the others.”
All at once the name he’s been grasping at plays right into his hands. Eames stiffens and a cold shiver rolls down his spine.
“When I closed my eyes, I saw your face,” Robert Fischer tells him.
“You weren’t meant to remember.”
“Just one more thing that didn’t go according to plan,” Fischer says, too flat to be taunting. His voice has moved, behind him. “Isn’t that right?”
He can feel Fischer’s chest against his back and swallows. “And what do you plan to do with me?”
His chuckle comes directly in Eames’ ear, hands curving around his front. He doesn’t answer, only slips hot hands over Eames’ abdomen and down over his hips. Eames jerks in his bonds and cries out hoarsely at what feels like hundreds of sets of hands trying to claw their way beneath his skin. He goes limp with a shudder. The ropes chafe against his sweat-slick skin, but the pain is nothing compared to seconds before.
A soft groan escapes his lips as Fischer’s hand grasps his prick and squeezes.
“What’re you…don’t,” he says, voice wavering. “Fischer-”
He breaks off in a moan. Even dry, his hand coaxes a rise out of Eames’ prick. Arousal stirs weakly in his belly, a counterpoint to the nausea as he realizes that the rigid pressure at the base of his spine is Fischer’s erection.
“It doesn’t feel good to be helpless, does it?”
“For fuck’s sakes,” he manages to bite out. “It was business, nothing-”
“Personal?” Fischer finishes. His hand is rough as it jerks over him, quick and uneven. “Maybe not to you, but it wasn’t business as usual for me. I promise you that this is very personal.” His prick digs into Eames’ back, radiating heat even through his clothing as his hand moves. “You like that, don’t you?”
“Fuck off,” he growls.
“Tell me it feels good,” Fischer says, voice soft but devoid of kindness. The quiet in it frightens Eames, utterly detached from anything emotional or even human. There is no anger or any kind of passion at all. A man like that is dangerous, Eames knows.
Fischer doesn’t need to tell him twice.
“Good,” he mumbles, his face hot. “Feels good, yeah…”
“They told me you were good at what you did,” Fischer says, flat and unimpressed. “You’re supposed to be some world class con and you can’t even manage to be convincing when I have your prick in my hand?” He squeezes hard, for emphasis, and Eames whines low in his throat. “Again.”
Whatever Fischer hears must satisfy him, because his hand picks up the pace on Eames’ prick. The pleasure of it pins him there as surely as Fischer’s weight or the ropes, or the sour tang of shame in his mouth.
It isn’t long before his shame is dirtying Fischer’s hand in a frantic rush, but he doesn’t stop, stroking him even when he’s so sensitive each pass is an agony. Fischer is a silent force at his back, bearing down on him. His weight shifts Eames where the ropes are at their tightest, rubbing his body raw while Fischer’s hand jerks his prick and the headache threatens him with a black out.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his mouth filled with the salt of his own tears, and for a moment he isn’t entirely sure who he’s apologizing to through the froth that flies from his lips with every word. “For everything, Robert. I’m sorry, so bloody fucking sorry, please just stop. Please-”
Fischer makes a disgusted sound in his throat, still tugging on Eames’ prick. “It’s a little late for apologies, don’t you think? You’d say anything to get me to stop. Why should I believe you?”
But he stops, all the same. There’s a clatter in the dark and then Fischer’s hand is running over the slick knobs of his spine, fingers dipping down into the cleft of his ass and stroking there for a moment before they push past the tight ring of muscle and make him cry out. He sobs and shudders there on the floor, humiliated to be there with come drying on his belly, hard even with Fischer’s fingers jamming roughly into his ass.
His voice is strained. “How does it feel to be violated?”
Eames can barely breathe, let alone speak. He lets Fischer’s jibes wash over him until he’s numb with everything that has been said. Fischer breaches him in one swift shove, breathing loudly in his ear with every hard roll of his hips. Eames feels small in the darkness, only a collapsed point bright and hot with his own pain.
“Tell me how it feels,” Fischer pants. “Tell me, Daniel…”
There is a white burst of light and suddenly everything is melting away. Eames’ eyes flutter open and Yusuf is there with concern knotting his eyebrows, hand warm and familiar on his shoulder.
“Daniel,” he says, shaking him a little. “Daniel, what is the matter?”
“Nightmare,” he croaks. “That’s all. I’ll be all right. Go back to sleep, love.”
Yusuf studies him a moment longer, but finally flicks the lights and curls an arm around his middle. Eames hears his breathing even out as he drifts off again. His face is wet, sweat or tears or a combination of both as he curls himself up in Yusuf’s arms.
He murmurs his answer to a man who was never there and wonders, waiting for the darkness to lift, if this is what guilt feels like.
Word Count: 1,580
Pairing: Fischer/Eames, a bit of Yusuf/Eames
Rating: R
Summary: Eames knows that voice, would know it anywhere, but the name of the man it belongs to dances just out of reach, his fingers too thick and clumsy to snatch it back.
Warnings: non-con, rope bondage, loads and loads of guilt
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Title and cut text are taken from “The Enemy Within” by Rush.
Author's Note: For the_azure_blue, who requested a Fischer revenge fic with shibari and an extra helping of helplessness. I wasn't able to work Saito/Fischer in there, but I'll make it up to you, I swear! ♥
Eames comes to with a wave of nausea that seems to radiate outward from his temples, the interference patterns rippling into one another to create a hot spike at the base of his skull. Pain trickles down the taut curve of his spine with the sweat, drenching him in it until he feels nothing but the dull ache of it everywhere and groans against the sandpaper in his throat.
He blinks sluggishly and tries to speak. Saliva follows his unintelligible mumbling, slicking his chin. He can’t see an inch in front of his face, but his hearing is perfectly intact.
“That would be the paralytic.”
A man’s voice, calm and quiet and close to his cheek. Warm air puffs out against his clammy skin, droplets of moisture that prick like agony with the migraine that’s taken hold of his head. Eames moans and his own voice, inside his head with the pain, is even worse, amplified a hundred fold. He swallows the sound and tries to orient himself to where he’s kneeling on the floor.
“It should be wearing off soon.” The man is still crouched in front of him. “Sorry about that.”
There is no remorse there, nothing but a crisp, flat inflection that raises the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck with a whisper of recognition. He knows that voice, would know it anywhere, but the name of the man it belongs to dances just out of reach, his fingers too thick and clumsy to snatch it back. Sensation bleeds back into his limbs with unpleasant pinpricks.
As if on cue, the man speaks again. “I don’t recommend struggling when the feeling comes back. Most of those knots will slip if you move too much.”
The voice is further away this time, somewhere off to his left. Knots? Eames shifts experimentally and groans at the sharp tug across his shoulders, paralleled by the dull throbbing in his knees. It feels like concrete, digging into the bare flesh of his legs. Bit by bit he becomes aware of the lines of pressure crossed all over his body.
It takes the brush of the man’s sleeve on his skin before Eames realizes he’s naked under the network of ropes. Fingers grip his chin and he swallows the sick that burns up into his throat.
“Here,” the man says, holding something up to his lips. It’s cold and smooth-a glass.
His hand cradles Eames’ skull, helping tilt his head back so he can drink. He gulps it thirstily, more concerned with not being able to see than the possibility of there being anything but water in that glass. The man takes it away and Eames hears only the sharp clink as he sets it aside.
Every brush of the man’s hand over his face makes him shudder, leaves him fighting the urge to sick up. Eames swears he can feel every tiny groove in the man’s fingertips, each raking over his raw, frayed nerve ends.
He blinks his eyes again as if that might make his vision come flooding back, but there is only darkness. He’s not blindfolded, that much he knows. There is no pressure against his eyelashes when he blinks.
His voice is hoarse, but clear enough. “Did you blind me?”
The man is close enough for Eames to taste his metallic exhalations. “Only temporarily.”
“Why?”
“So you would know what it’s like to have your eyes open and still see nothing of the world around you,” the man says readily. His voice sounds more familiar than ever, but Eames is no longer sure he wants to know whose it is. The man seems, again, to pick up on his thoughts. “I would introduce myself, but I think you remember me.”
Eames shakes his head, brain rattling around in his skull like a lead weight. The man touches his cheek, sending the pain flaring up again. “I remembered you, Eames, better than any of the others.”
All at once the name he’s been grasping at plays right into his hands. Eames stiffens and a cold shiver rolls down his spine.
“When I closed my eyes, I saw your face,” Robert Fischer tells him.
“You weren’t meant to remember.”
“Just one more thing that didn’t go according to plan,” Fischer says, too flat to be taunting. His voice has moved, behind him. “Isn’t that right?”
He can feel Fischer’s chest against his back and swallows. “And what do you plan to do with me?”
His chuckle comes directly in Eames’ ear, hands curving around his front. He doesn’t answer, only slips hot hands over Eames’ abdomen and down over his hips. Eames jerks in his bonds and cries out hoarsely at what feels like hundreds of sets of hands trying to claw their way beneath his skin. He goes limp with a shudder. The ropes chafe against his sweat-slick skin, but the pain is nothing compared to seconds before.
A soft groan escapes his lips as Fischer’s hand grasps his prick and squeezes.
“What’re you…don’t,” he says, voice wavering. “Fischer-”
He breaks off in a moan. Even dry, his hand coaxes a rise out of Eames’ prick. Arousal stirs weakly in his belly, a counterpoint to the nausea as he realizes that the rigid pressure at the base of his spine is Fischer’s erection.
“It doesn’t feel good to be helpless, does it?”
“For fuck’s sakes,” he manages to bite out. “It was business, nothing-”
“Personal?” Fischer finishes. His hand is rough as it jerks over him, quick and uneven. “Maybe not to you, but it wasn’t business as usual for me. I promise you that this is very personal.” His prick digs into Eames’ back, radiating heat even through his clothing as his hand moves. “You like that, don’t you?”
“Fuck off,” he growls.
“Tell me it feels good,” Fischer says, voice soft but devoid of kindness. The quiet in it frightens Eames, utterly detached from anything emotional or even human. There is no anger or any kind of passion at all. A man like that is dangerous, Eames knows.
Fischer doesn’t need to tell him twice.
“Good,” he mumbles, his face hot. “Feels good, yeah…”
“They told me you were good at what you did,” Fischer says, flat and unimpressed. “You’re supposed to be some world class con and you can’t even manage to be convincing when I have your prick in my hand?” He squeezes hard, for emphasis, and Eames whines low in his throat. “Again.”
Whatever Fischer hears must satisfy him, because his hand picks up the pace on Eames’ prick. The pleasure of it pins him there as surely as Fischer’s weight or the ropes, or the sour tang of shame in his mouth.
It isn’t long before his shame is dirtying Fischer’s hand in a frantic rush, but he doesn’t stop, stroking him even when he’s so sensitive each pass is an agony. Fischer is a silent force at his back, bearing down on him. His weight shifts Eames where the ropes are at their tightest, rubbing his body raw while Fischer’s hand jerks his prick and the headache threatens him with a black out.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his mouth filled with the salt of his own tears, and for a moment he isn’t entirely sure who he’s apologizing to through the froth that flies from his lips with every word. “For everything, Robert. I’m sorry, so bloody fucking sorry, please just stop. Please-”
Fischer makes a disgusted sound in his throat, still tugging on Eames’ prick. “It’s a little late for apologies, don’t you think? You’d say anything to get me to stop. Why should I believe you?”
But he stops, all the same. There’s a clatter in the dark and then Fischer’s hand is running over the slick knobs of his spine, fingers dipping down into the cleft of his ass and stroking there for a moment before they push past the tight ring of muscle and make him cry out. He sobs and shudders there on the floor, humiliated to be there with come drying on his belly, hard even with Fischer’s fingers jamming roughly into his ass.
His voice is strained. “How does it feel to be violated?”
Eames can barely breathe, let alone speak. He lets Fischer’s jibes wash over him until he’s numb with everything that has been said. Fischer breaches him in one swift shove, breathing loudly in his ear with every hard roll of his hips. Eames feels small in the darkness, only a collapsed point bright and hot with his own pain.
“Tell me how it feels,” Fischer pants. “Tell me, Daniel…”
There is a white burst of light and suddenly everything is melting away. Eames’ eyes flutter open and Yusuf is there with concern knotting his eyebrows, hand warm and familiar on his shoulder.
“Daniel,” he says, shaking him a little. “Daniel, what is the matter?”
“Nightmare,” he croaks. “That’s all. I’ll be all right. Go back to sleep, love.”
Yusuf studies him a moment longer, but finally flicks the lights and curls an arm around his middle. Eames hears his breathing even out as he drifts off again. His face is wet, sweat or tears or a combination of both as he curls himself up in Yusuf’s arms.
He murmurs his answer to a man who was never there and wonders, waiting for the darkness to lift, if this is what guilt feels like.