mysteriousaliways (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mysteriousaliways) wrote2010-10-14 12:54 am
mysteriousaliways) wrote2010-10-14 12:54 am
Entry tags:
Fic: "Atonement", NC17, Leek/Abby/Connor, non-con/dub-con
Title: Atonement
Author: mysteriousaliwz
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Leek/Abby/Connor
Rating: NC-17 for dark themes and non-con/dub-con
Disclaimer: I don't own Leek, Abby, Connor or Primeval. My apologies to those who do.
Warnings: Written for a prompt by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
joereaves at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
primevalkink. Note: this is very dark, and more twisted than a corkscrew, but then it is for a kink meme *g*. Contains the following: Violence, Torture, Non-Con, Reference to Character Death, Non-consensual BDSM.
Edit: now beta'd by the inimitablefredbassett - thanks m'dear!
Atonement
~~~~~~~~~
Leek dreamily watched the cloud-shadows scud across the wall, the shadows of the window bars fading then deepening with the varying light. It must be breezy out there, he thought briefly, but did not pursue the thought further - what was outside was of no importance. He lay on the mattress and watched the peeling off-white paint of the wall gradually warm to a faint pink from a reflected sunset while the gloom of twilight gathered until finally the light seeped away to leave him surrounded by the welcoming darkness.
Thirsty.
He pushed the blankets to one side and rose from the mattress, heading unerringly for the sink on the other side of the room. The impenetrable darkness was no obstacle - he knew the distance to the nearest centimetre. The chain clanked and rattled against the floor, the metal cuff tugging gently at his ankle with each step. He reached out, turned the tap and bent his head to drink, the water cold in his mouth, trickling down his throat.
He returned to the mattress and lay down again, pulling the blankets over him, warm and slightly prickly against his skin.
Perhaps tonight they would come?
He squashed the hopeful thought - it was not his place to speculate. His role was to serve; obedient, unquestioning. To offer his submission, imperfect as it was. Flawed, he was, and slow to learn; he had been stubborn, so shamefully stubborn, but they were patient, his masters, patient and merciful.
Sleep crept up on him and he drifted into unconsciousness.
The dreams came, as they always did; images distressing and comforting, memories twining through each other, sensations of pain and pleasure...
Screams - his own; blood spattered over the concrete floor, a vicious boot thudding repeatedly into his unprotected abdomen, the sharp flare of another cracked rib.
A howl, a voice, raw with rage and grief: “He’s dead! Because of you, you bastard, he’s dead!”
A different boot, stamping on the open wound that claws had gouged in his thigh, waves of agony shrieking along his nerves in overwhelming surges, matching shrieks torn from his throat.
A choked voice, thick with sobs: “This is for Stephen. You took him from us, and you’re going to spend the rest of your miserable life paying for it.”
The scrape of the floor against the edges of raw flesh on his back with each gasp for air.
Unbearable silence. Talking rambling nonsense for hours, just to hear the sound of a voice.
Cheek pressed to the floor, tears of humiliation leaking from squeezed-shut eyelids, hands holding him down while a thick cock rammed into his arse, his body shuddering from the violation.
His fists hammering on the door, leaving a smear of blood across the rough metal.
Fingers tugging at his hair, pressing his face into her groin.
The taste of come on his tongue.
The sharp bite of the whip across his shoulder blades.
The velvet weight of the cock in his mouth, slick with saliva.
A moan of pleasure.
He came awake abruptly, startled, sitting upright, his heart thumping. Listening to detect what might have woken him.
Perhaps they were here?
He could hear nothing. Perhaps they were here. If they were, he had better be ready. Be ready for them, just in case.
He scrambled out from the tangle of blankets and knelt in the centre of the floor, grit under his kneecaps, the chill metal of his ankle cuff pressing against his left buttock. His fingers restlessly rubbed over the long-healed scar tissue on his thigh, then he took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back.
He waited, head bowed.
He had been so impatient in those early days, so rebellious and full of hate and rage against his Master and Mistress. He had not understood. To his shame, he had caused them great grief, he had fought them, had rejected what they offered. He knew better now.
The rattle of a key in the door, and his cock twitched against his thigh. Light spilled into the room, silhouetting the two figures in the doorway, but he kept his head bowed and did not raise his gaze above knee height. He had seen what his Mistress held in her hand though, and his heart raced with anticipation.
This time he was truly fortunate. This time the weals would last for days, he would have the marks to remind him of his purification. All he had to offer was the humble service of mouth, tongue and body, and in exchange he would be purged. Cleansed. The shame stripped from him.
For a little while, he would know atonement.
Mistress stepped forward and held the riding crop before his face. Fingers brushed his hair and, as he kissed the plaited leather of the handle, he heard a voice murmur “Oliver” and jubilation filled his heart.
Author: mysteriousaliwz
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Leek/Abby/Connor
Rating: NC-17 for dark themes and non-con/dub-con
Disclaimer: I don't own Leek, Abby, Connor or Primeval. My apologies to those who do.
Warnings: Written for a prompt by
joereaves at primevalkink. Note: this is very dark, and more twisted than a corkscrew, but then it is for a kink meme *g*. Contains the following: Violence, Torture, Non-Con, Reference to Character Death, Non-consensual BDSM. Edit: now beta'd by the inimitable
fredbassett - thanks m'dear!Atonement
~~~~~~~~~
Leek dreamily watched the cloud-shadows scud across the wall, the shadows of the window bars fading then deepening with the varying light. It must be breezy out there, he thought briefly, but did not pursue the thought further - what was outside was of no importance. He lay on the mattress and watched the peeling off-white paint of the wall gradually warm to a faint pink from a reflected sunset while the gloom of twilight gathered until finally the light seeped away to leave him surrounded by the welcoming darkness.
Thirsty.
He pushed the blankets to one side and rose from the mattress, heading unerringly for the sink on the other side of the room. The impenetrable darkness was no obstacle - he knew the distance to the nearest centimetre. The chain clanked and rattled against the floor, the metal cuff tugging gently at his ankle with each step. He reached out, turned the tap and bent his head to drink, the water cold in his mouth, trickling down his throat.
He returned to the mattress and lay down again, pulling the blankets over him, warm and slightly prickly against his skin.
Perhaps tonight they would come?
He squashed the hopeful thought - it was not his place to speculate. His role was to serve; obedient, unquestioning. To offer his submission, imperfect as it was. Flawed, he was, and slow to learn; he had been stubborn, so shamefully stubborn, but they were patient, his masters, patient and merciful.
Sleep crept up on him and he drifted into unconsciousness.
The dreams came, as they always did; images distressing and comforting, memories twining through each other, sensations of pain and pleasure...
Screams - his own; blood spattered over the concrete floor, a vicious boot thudding repeatedly into his unprotected abdomen, the sharp flare of another cracked rib.
A howl, a voice, raw with rage and grief: “He’s dead! Because of you, you bastard, he’s dead!”
A different boot, stamping on the open wound that claws had gouged in his thigh, waves of agony shrieking along his nerves in overwhelming surges, matching shrieks torn from his throat.
A choked voice, thick with sobs: “This is for Stephen. You took him from us, and you’re going to spend the rest of your miserable life paying for it.”
The scrape of the floor against the edges of raw flesh on his back with each gasp for air.
Unbearable silence. Talking rambling nonsense for hours, just to hear the sound of a voice.
Cheek pressed to the floor, tears of humiliation leaking from squeezed-shut eyelids, hands holding him down while a thick cock rammed into his arse, his body shuddering from the violation.
His fists hammering on the door, leaving a smear of blood across the rough metal.
Fingers tugging at his hair, pressing his face into her groin.
The taste of come on his tongue.
The sharp bite of the whip across his shoulder blades.
The velvet weight of the cock in his mouth, slick with saliva.
A moan of pleasure.
He came awake abruptly, startled, sitting upright, his heart thumping. Listening to detect what might have woken him.
Perhaps they were here?
He could hear nothing. Perhaps they were here. If they were, he had better be ready. Be ready for them, just in case.
He scrambled out from the tangle of blankets and knelt in the centre of the floor, grit under his kneecaps, the chill metal of his ankle cuff pressing against his left buttock. His fingers restlessly rubbed over the long-healed scar tissue on his thigh, then he took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back.
He waited, head bowed.
He had been so impatient in those early days, so rebellious and full of hate and rage against his Master and Mistress. He had not understood. To his shame, he had caused them great grief, he had fought them, had rejected what they offered. He knew better now.
The rattle of a key in the door, and his cock twitched against his thigh. Light spilled into the room, silhouetting the two figures in the doorway, but he kept his head bowed and did not raise his gaze above knee height. He had seen what his Mistress held in her hand though, and his heart raced with anticipation.
This time he was truly fortunate. This time the weals would last for days, he would have the marks to remind him of his purification. All he had to offer was the humble service of mouth, tongue and body, and in exchange he would be purged. Cleansed. The shame stripped from him.
For a little while, he would know atonement.
Mistress stepped forward and held the riding crop before his face. Fingers brushed his hair and, as he kissed the plaited leather of the handle, he heard a voice murmur “Oliver” and jubilation filled his heart.