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04 November 2007 @ 01:19 am
I can haz cheezbrgr?  
BWAHAHAHAHA...I don't want to post everything at once. Ohes Noes. So instead, I begin with this little catastrophegem found here as well. Well, found there as well...

TITLE: Shattered Glass
PAIRING: Tim Messenger/Simon Skinner
A/N: Chapter 2, need chapter 1 to get it. Sorry. It sucks. THIS! IS! NON-CON! Do not read if you have issues with bondage, torture, pain, bleeding, and rape. All in one chapter. Oh, and there is wibbling angst. You love it. God knows I do. OMGWTFROFLTARDEDBONANZA!

“Make that sound again,” Simon growls, his hold on Tim’s injured hand tightening. He leans down, closer, nearer to Tim’s face than he’s ever been, and he can see the little gears in Tim’s head whirring and breaking and melting.

“If you’ll kiss me,” Tim says without thinking, his entire being driven purely by need, kept from writhing in agonizing want simply by the potential threat of death the man looming over him still posed toward him. “I’ll do…whatever you want, if you…if you’ll kiss me.”

Skinner’s expression grows dark, a deep frown and a slight flaring of nostrils, his brow furrowing and relaxing almost spasmodically: He’s torn. Timothy is a good lad, truly good, regardless of his affection, but for the Association to learn of such a thing… Honestly, his awareness of such a flaw is merit enough to eliminate Tim right now, but something holds him back.

Leaning over Tim is getting uncomfortable, though, holding himself half-suspended above Tim’s face to get a good solid glare on his captive. Skinner snatches at Tim’s other wrist, ignoring his plaintive squeak of fear, wrenching both of Tim’s arms around and slamming his hands, palms-up, into the carpet. Pinning Tim’s wrists to the floor, however, requires a greater degree of intimacy than Simon had expected; their chests are nearly flush, and Simon has to turn his face not to find himself directly confronted with Tim’s.

There is something in Skinner’s mind whispering, telling him things he shouldn’t hear; ‘It’s for the greater good…Do you really want to kill him? Do you? You do…For this, will you? Will you? Or will you…You will…But will he? He’ll KNOW.’

It’s true, and he knows it. Tim will keep his mouth shut only so long as nobody asks him to speak, and then Lord knows how much and how quickly he’ll cave, and then…And then…Everything is falling apart, Simon can feel it, he knows he has to kill Tim, he has to get that rope still tucked in his trouser pocket and wind it around Tim’s throat and pull, pull so hard the tendons in his arms stand out, so hard that the friction tears his palms-

-Like Tim’s palms-

-Until Tim’s windpipe collapses or his neck snaps.

“S-Simon,” Tim whispers, his face a cowering question. In the back of his mind, he knows what will come of this night, and he’s doing his best not to wibble his way into a cold, quick demise. He’s trying, trying so hard…

Skinner looks down into the face of this young, terrified, innocent man and pauses. Tim’s breathing is shallow, apologetic to compensate for their closeness, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip. He’s just a boy, just a kid in so many ways, and with his glasses gone and his hair well-mussed and his T-shirt riding high over his belly button, Skinner knows, he knows he shouldn’t do this, but what else can he do?

It isn’t about Tim’s orientation anymore, or even the fact that, yes, Simon is aware of the half-hard penis pressing against his right thigh, or even the well-concealed fact that he’s getting rather flustered from the situation himself. It isn’t about hiding murders or fixing jobs, staging crime scenes and writing alibis. It’s not about well-tended gardens and sparkling streets, picturesque by-ways, tidy parks and provincialism. It’s about morals and standards and beliefs, it’s about upholding a standard so tenuous and frail, but so effective.

It’s about the God-damned Greater Good.

And Tim knows…

“Don’t let it hurt,” Tim whispers, blinking at the first sign of tears, of weakness, stealing his resolve. His voice still quavers, and the care with which he speaks indicates his sorrow, his love, his loss, and not just for himself.

Simon breaks.

“Don’t,” he growls, lunging forward, his nose brushing Tim’s cheek, so close he can hear the tiny squeaks emanating from Tim’s throat. “Don’t talk like that, Timothy. Don’t act like I’ve wronged you, not yet…I’m not going to kill you.”

Tim can hardly breathe. His heart hammers in his chest, his head swims, and all he can sense is Skinner’s body lowering onto his, crushing him into the rug, forcing the air from his lungs.

“Simon-” Tim chokes, trying to shift, but Skinner thrusts into him.

Three seconds later, Tim gasps and lets out a terrified howl; Simon’s teeth are burried in his neck, a strange mixture of lips caressing raw flesh and teeth tearing viciously at sensitive skin, his breathing hot and ragged against Tim’s neck. Tim arches and writhes finally, allowing himself to grind against, well God, anything to make his body stop crying out, and suddenly Skinner is pushing back, pushing down.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Tim mews, shaking feverishly. He knows Skinner’s toying with him, testing him, trying to hurt him, to what end he doesn’t know or care to anymore, but he knows the reality of this situation is harsh and deadly.

Fuck-all if he cares, though. Not with Simon riding down on him like that, not with those hands holding him down, not with that mouth marking him and molding him into something new and twisted and wrong, wrong, wrong for Sandford.

Simon’s head is spinning, his body on auto-pilot, and he’s not sure if thinking straight is a permissible term for what he should be doing at the moment. He’s not even sure what he’s doing, to be perfectly honest, although the smoldering heat racing through his body, along with the mouthful of Tim he’s working on, seem to be pointing in a certain, uncomfortable direction.

Why? Why now? Why do this to him? How much should he hurt before…? Or won’t you? Won’t you?

Simon isn’t listening to reason, in fact he’s not listening to anything, apart from the furious beating of Tim’s heart and the desperate noises he’s making. Simon has always had a thing for making people squirm and squeal, maybe beg as well, but ooooh the pretty sounds he’d love for Tim to make-

Cut it the fuck out! The FUCK out! Cut it out!

The louder it gets in his head, the more furiously he works, grunting as Tim bucks against his groin, six-and-a-half inches of swollen flesh reminding Simon that yes, Tim is still enjoying himself. Simon bites a little harder, a little deeper, and Tim gasps and keens.

“Please, please more,” Tim whimpers.

Simon almost cackles, almost, except he’d be forced to give up his control, his tenuous hold on the situation. His mind is rioting, raging, screaming and beating the insides of his skull, telling him, telling him that this must stop NOW.

Releasing one of Tim’s wrists, he draws his fingertips seductively down the length of Tim’s arm, across his chest, over his stomach, and grabs the buckle of the reporter’s belt tightly in his hand before tracing its edges, searching for the clasp. Tim can barely breathe, his vision blurred without his glasses, but his eyes further glossed from the sensation of firm fingers playing at his waist, unbuckling his belt, pulling it free of his pants…

“Timothy,” Simon rumbles, his voice hot and low, breathing into Tim’s ear. “Take off your shirt.”

This is not a question. Tim finds his hands suddenly free, and without sitting up, reaches down, yanks his shirt up to his armpits, and lifts his shoulders from the carpet only long enough to wrench the fabric free. As his hands come up, tossing away the shirt, Skinner grabs Tim’s left wrist again, making a loop in the belt and fastening it around the limb, before grabbing Tim’s other hand and tying the two together.

“W-wait!” Tim begins to object, panic setting in as Simon reaches down to unzip his fly. Their eyes meet for a moment, Tim’s filled with terror, Simon’s stoic and slightly demonic, and Tim realizes just how this is going to go. “P-please, don’t hurt-”

Another blow, this time to the stomach, and Tim can’t help but choke and cough, trying to roll into himself, but Simon is on him. Instead, he lies flat, hoping to catch his breath, when he nearly chokes on his own tongue: He arches up, eyes wide, mouth gaping, trying to make words, trying to think of words to make, but can only writhe and squeak.

Simon is fast when it comes to pants.

Looking down, Tim can see his length protruding from his open jeans, the cap visible within Simon’s tightly-fisted hand, stroking him slowly with one hand as his other moves for his own belt.

“Now Timothy,” Simon murmurs, almost threatening as he leans close to Tim’s face, “You’ll do exactly as I say, won’t you?”

The words waft gently across Tim’s consciousness as his grip fades, wandering into a darker realm of pleasurable fantasy, where this isn’t taking place on the bloody carpet of his dead boss’s sitting room, where Simon isn’t on the verge of raping him, no matter how much Tim might want it, and where, to his relief, there are no bruises tie-dying his flesh.

And there certainly are enough of them already.

A lightning bolt of pain brings Tim out of his thoughts and back into the present, Tim’s erection stretching up along his exposed belly as Simon strikes him furiously across the face once more. Tim yelps and bites his lips, curling them into his mouth as he tastes coppery blood and feels tears burn his cheeks, his vision evening out to show Simon grinning maliciously down at him.

“You’ll do as I say, correct, Timothy?” Simon purrs, slowly wrapping his own belt twice around his fist; Tim didn’t see him take it off, but he’s afraid to wonder what it’s for now.

The longer Tim hesitates, the more frustrated Simon becomes. He drops from his kneeling position back to hands and knees, holding himself just high enough over Tim’s body that their noses bump and brush, but his erection doesn’t contact Simon’s skin. His dark eyes peer down into Tim’s with a mixture of lust and loathing, a need to dominate and control, a need to desecrate and destroy, a need to survive.

He is a threat. A THREAT. Do what you must, what you MUST, only what you must!

“Timothy?” Simon repeats, nearly surprised when Tim’s ragged breathing gives way to a shuddering sob, twisting pathetically as he attempts to scoot free, but pinned on his back with his pants down and his wrists bound, he knows realistically there’s no way out.

“P-p-please,” Tim stutters, trying to turn his crying into coughing, trying to hide his fear. He knows it’s what Simon wants, like he’s feeding off him, an emotional vampire of some sort, but this isn’t what he wants anymore. He doesn’t want to be tied and fucked and killed, to be found raped and murdered in some remote thicket, half-consumed by wild dogs and gnats, and that’s all that can come of this encounter, he knows it.

Simon narrows his eyes, finally allowing his body to lie flush with Tim’s, ignoring the enraged nausea stirring in his gut as sticky-hot flesh presses into his abdomen. He wraps an arm around Tim’s waist as his other hand goes into his back pocket, pulling out the thick black rope, grabbing it in a wad.

“Open your mouth, Tim,” he instructs, and before Tim can pull his head aside, Simon’s lips momentarily brush Tim’s lower lip, a tingling burst of sensation blooming across Tim’s face, turning him pink and scarlet. The hitch in his chest becomes a smooth vibration, smoothing out as Simon drags his body across Tim’s, creeping up his torso.

In his stupor Tim can only obey, allowing his lips to fall open a fracture more each time Simon moves against him, his eyes transfixed with Simon’s, trying to understand his confusing expression through the catatonic haze he’s falling into.

Something grinds against his penis, something hard and fleshy and hot, and Tim can barely keep himself down; he gasps and flails but his hands are bound, making him nearly strike Simon in the head as he tries to arch upward at the same time. More, he wants more, he doesn’t care suddenly if his life is on the line, he wants. Fuck, he wants it!

“Fuck me,” Tim swears, not realizing his usual curse has taken on a new meaning suddenly. When he opens his eyes next, Simon is glowering at him with such disgust and contempt that Tim nearly stops breathing.

The rope is jammed into his mouth, Tim trying to scream a moment later as he realizes the gag won’t budge, and that the danger of choking on such a thing is far higher than with a conventional sock or ball gag. He tries to work his tongue around it, to find a way of pushing it out, but a new wave of panic sets in as Simon takes the belt from his hand, wraps it around Tim’s neck, and starts to tighten it, notch by notch.

“Now Tim,” Simon sneers, placing his right palm on Tim’s chest and applying his full weight, “I can’t have you moving too much, can I? I need you to be a good boy for me, Timothy, just like that, and lie still. It is very hard to do this sort of thing when you’re moving.”

Now Tim knows. He knows for certain what’s about to happen. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, clenching his jaws and trying not to swallow the loops of rope that keep rolling toward the back of his mouth. His wrists ache, his head hurts, and for some reason his ribs don’t feel well, either. Nor does his stomach. He hopes he doesn’t vomit, not this time, not again.

He can feel Simon grab him around the waist and hoist him up, his ass resting against warm, rough skin; he didn’t hear Skinner take his pants off, either, but just like the belt, it doesn’t matter now. He can feel Skinner pushing against him, moving forward as he holds Tim in place, and the next moment he bites down hard and screams against his gag, squeazing his eyes shut as the tears he’s been holding back double up with this fresh wave and pour down his face. He kicks against dead air and bucks against Skinner’s arms, only to earn a double insult to the guts, two closed fists in rapid succession.

FUCK. FUCK, make it STOP, please, please, please, God…

Skinner keeps pushing, grunting as he heaves forward, panting from the combined effort of moving himself, moving Tim, and keeping his head together. He finds this act both contradictory and pleasurable, and fighting both sides into a stand-still is proving impossible. He can’t stand to look at Tim. He knows what he’ll see. And he doesn’t want that image burned into his mind for the rest of his life.

Skinner’s stopped moving. Tim gasps for breath, coughing quietly as he keeps working at the rope, focusing his breathing through his nose as wave after wave of pain starts in his lower belly and rips outward, tearing into his chest and radiating along his arms and legs, into his fingers and toes. The throb in his groin is completely comprised of agony, his penis flaccid in the wake of this unannounced intrusion, and as Simon begins to move inside him, Tim can’t hold back any longer; he screams, the sound muffled but violent, slamming his head painfully against the floor as he twists and wriggles. He has to get away, he has to, he will not just lie still and let this happen.

Simon isn’t in the mood to play anymore, though. Without thinking, he cocks back his right fist and lets loose a crushing blow to Tim’s head, his nose erupting in a burst of blood, a single spasm ripping his body from head to toe.

Tim goes limp.

For a moment Simon freezes before pushing Tim off his dick, climbing around the side of him, reaching his fingers into the reporter’s mouth and yanking out the rope, unsnapping the belt buckle, undoing the poor man’s wrists. He lies him in a more natural position, his hands resting on Tim’s chest and the side of his face. He’s still breathing. He’s still alive.

Simon has never been more relieved in his life.

He scoots closer, leaning over Tim’s prone form, studying the bruised face. He’s covered in mottled blood, streaked across his face where his tears interrupted its natural flow. Further down, his chest is bruised, in purple-green stains that seem to frame his sternum and accentuate his ribs. His belly is slightly red, probably from the blows, or maybe the last remnants of a boyish blush on the only skin not tainted by broken blood vessels.

Simon’s eyes don’t venture any further south.

His hands shake as he reaches down and traces the curve of Tim’s lips with his thumb. What if he’d killed him? What if he never woke up? Could he live with himself? Could he stand the idea that this man, this boy, this innocent young man had been tortured so brutally at his hands?

Simon prides himself on his stoicism. He knows how dangerous it was to drop his guard, to let others in. He has perfected the art of bullshitting, has erected such a complete and flawless façade that no one in Sandford had penetrated the veil in nearly six years, and he never, never lets anyone get the better of him.

But he is shaking. He is shaken. He has stepped outside his boundaries for once and found he couldn’t control himself as completely as he and everyone else thought. He has found that there is something he couldn’t do, someone he couldn’t control, someone he couldn’t hurt without feeling it.

“Tim,” Simon whispers, the name like a password, a secret weapon. His Kryptonite. This man was bound, naked and unconscious, and Simon couldn’t finish the job. He’s never had anyone in a more compromised circumstance, and still he’d been able to function, to do his duty, to protect the Greater Good, but not to Tim, not for anyone, not ever. Never. Not Tim. Fuck, not Tim-

“Tim, wake up,” Simon whispers again, urgency entering his voice as he shakes the journalist gently. He leans in closer, feverishly studying Tim’s features, hoping for a stirring, a sign of life. “Tim, wake up, please-!”

Tim gasps as his eyes snap open, immediately floundering and slapping at Simon, trying to push himself away, but Simon grabs his arms and steadies himself, holding Tim still until his breathing slows and his eyes focus. They sit in silence, staring, lost, trapped.

“Tim,” Simon murmurs again, watching Tim’s expression change from fearful to angry to resigned, the light of every emotion draining away in the face of certain death. The tension in his arms disappears, held aloft by Simon’s maintained grip.

He tugs hard on Tim’s arms, startling the young man to no end as he pulls their chests flush and wraps his arms around Tim’s back. He holds him, silent and thoughtful, afraid that for the first time in years he’s going to cry. Part of him is enraged for losing his composure, for breaking down, for failing, such a FAILURE. Part of him…part of him is still shaking.

He can’t stop repeating Tim’s name. He’s not even aware of it as he inadvertently clutches the nape of Tim’s neck, the other gripping his hip fiercely. He doesn’t notice the tremors in his body, the subtle indication that he’s losing control, that he needs to get up and leave before this goes any further. He doesn’t care that Tim’s arms are around him, holding him, squeezing him.

He turns his face. Tim is there, staring back, confused but passive. Their mouths open and close, come together, meet and mingle. There is wetness, tongues, something briefly horrifying and unnameable. There’s a deep thirst, a deeper hunger, a need that rises like bile in Simon’s throat, that stirs to life in Tim’s belly, pushing aside the rage and violence in lieu of something even more powerful. And then there’s heat, fire raking Simon’s limbs like never in his life, turning him into something different, something evil, something new, making the voice in his head twist and shriek as it’s consumed.

“I could kill you for this,” Simon breathes against Tim’s lips.

“Then kill me,” Tim replies, allowing Simon to lay him down again, this time letting it happen. “I said…if you kissed-”

Simon’s mouth is on his again, killing the words. That’s not what this is about, and they both know it, or they should by now. Simon grabs Tim’s hand, which is reaching to push him away, and forces it against the ground, but this time his hand moves upward, across Tim’s palm, and their fingers intertwine.

“You said you’d do whatever I want,” Simon corrects, his lips moving across Tim’s cheek toward his ear, Simon flicking his tongue against the lobe of Tim’s left ear and smiling as the reporter gasps and writhes. The hand pinning Tim‘s pulls back slightly, finding the red scars in Tim‘s palm and molesting them slowly, working at them until a gentle trickle of bled springs loose and Tim groans, grabbing at Simon‘s shoulder with his free hand and pushing against him. Their eyes meet as Simon changes position, staring pointedly into Tim‘s eyes, leaning over him with unguarded intentions.

“And I want you to make that sound again, Timothy.”

Current Mood: dorky
wolfy_writing on November 4th, 2007 08:18 am (UTC)
I actually had to remind myself to breathe after that. It's very well-written.
mikes_grrl on November 4th, 2007 04:28 pm (UTC)
OMG you are just brilliant.


That scene was blood-curdingly violent yet romantic; I just love how Simon pushes the envelope and then collapses on himself, and how you keep Tim sympathetic (really, it is hard to write a sympathetic victim who is not fighting back, readers usually just get mad at them, but you did it).

Hot? Oh yeaaaa. But psychologically spot on, IMHO. That's what makes it so good.

The last line was a perfect, perfect circle closing. LOVE!

I NEVER ever EVER thought I'd say this about the Skinner/Messenger mix, but, eh...more?
zombie survivalist: avenging angelbeccavox on November 5th, 2007 12:27 am (UTC)
well, now I'm going to feel even more sympathy when the spire of the church goes into Tim's skull.

I hesitated to read a Skinner/Messenger story. But it was wrong. And I liked it.

Skinner sounded like Skinner. That was creepy. :)
lacking in glitter: subtexttawg on November 5th, 2007 07:29 am (UTC)
Simon is fast when it comes to pants.
This line made me chortle.

He doesn’t want to be tied and fucked and killed, to be found raped and murdered in some remote thicket, half-consumed by wild dogs and gnats, and that’s all that can come of this encounter, he knows it.
And this one made me shudder.

Wow. Like everyone else has been saying, you mingled some messed up actions with a hot kind of perversion and some intriguing character stuff. I never thought I'd say this of a Skinner/Messenger rape fic, but I'm interested in seeing you take this further.
(Deleted comment)
stelluci: sexybackstelluci on November 6th, 2007 05:37 am (UTC)

He's looking at YOU and you know it.