Not safe for work. M/M. Still stream of conscious so forgive editing issues.
Same characters as Up Top and Nope.
There was no one waiting outside. He had to make it on his own. He wasn’t pack yet, didn’t belong to anyone but Roland. No one knew him, no one cared.
“Yet,” Roland had told him. After. When they’d talked. Before he’d run. “Prove yourself and pack protection is yours. Belonging is yours.“
Belonging. He’d had that. In another place. Another time. Before he’d run the first time. It seemed he was always running. If only he could figure out why, maybe he could finally stop. Then again, Roland was probably going to make him stop. Roland was the first to come after him after he’d gone. The first to care that he wasn’t there anymore.
The streets were dark but he could see perfectly well. He could smell the people around him, some more than others. Body odor, perfume, fear, lust… his brain slowly identified them all as he walked with head down, hands tucked into the pockets of his shiny clubbing jacket. A light rain fell, misting him with wet. He didn’t exactly know where he was going, wasn’t clear on the final destination, but he knew the direction. Out of town. Into the woods beyond the pavement and buildings. He walked, in no particular hurry, knowing he’d get there eventually. Maybe an hour, maybe two. Maybe even more. Dawn was breaking through the canopy of trees by the time he left any public path and the shoes that weren’t meant for hiking were caked in mud.
He stopped when the other appeared.
She was his height, average for a woman, short for a man. Black hair blended with the shadows so he couldn’t tell its length, only that it was at least shoulder length. Her jacket and jeans were close to blending into the blue and green around her that all the focus was on her face in the shadows. He’d seen her before but didn’t know her name. She’d been with Roland. One of his. Like Dean was? He didn’t know and wondered at the streak of jealousy that snaked around his heart when he thought he might have to share Roland that way. What the hell!
Her dark eyes narrowed. Could she sense his thoughts? He didn’t think mind-reading was one of the, what had Roland called them?, enhanced abilities. But who knew? Certainly not him. Just in case, he tried to mellow his thoughts.
He stood and waited. He didn’t speak. He’d learned last time that he couldn’t hurry things along. They’d stand and stare at him for what seemed like forever before leading him where he needed to go.
Finally, she nodded. “Better,” he heard, before she waved him closer then turned her back to him to lead him into the bushes. What? Was he some puppy being trained and he’d just done well?
Well… actually, he kind of was.
Resigned, he followed, amazed at how little he slipped in the shoes that were so not for this terrain. He felt solid, secure in his body. He felt alive.
The shadows led to a cave mouth that was wider than his shoulder width but would probably scrape the arms of a bigger man. The woman in front of him managed it easily and he was amazed that he could still see her clearly. Enhanced abilities. Right.
It wasn’t a far trip. The cave mouth widened into a passage that could fit two people abreast with breathing room. But she stayed in front of him and he followed meekly. The path descended steadily and even his newly sure footing slid a time or two. Many people had passed through this tunnel so that the ground beneath his feet was smooth. Gradually, it became lighter so that he could make out details of her army jacket and its many pockets, could see that her loose hair fell nearly to where he guessed her butt might be beneath the overlarge jacket.
Then they came to the cavern. Hewn walls smoothed to a shiny finish, so that the torchlight reflected and made the tiny mineral deposits seem like starlight. The place could hold hundreds, he guessed, and there were even stone benches carved along the walls and around some massive boulders that had been shorn to work for tables, but there were only four people present: him, his guide, a hulk of a guy seated nonchalantly on one of the slabs, and Roland.
His master stood between and slightly in front of two torches, which cast his front in shadow that even Dean’s uber eyes couldn’t quite fathom. Hands braced on his hips, feet slightly apart, he looked like any version of a demon god that Dean had ever seen.
Dean’s guide slipped to the side, clearing the path between him and his master. Dean removed his hands from his pockets and, head bowed, he approached. When he saw the scuffed tips of his master’s steel-toed boots, he dropped to his knees in supplication.
“Hmm. Nice touch. Did you think of that on your own or did Haley prompt you?
“It wasn’t me,” said the woman behind him, finally cluing him in to her name. The derision was dripping in her voice, making her thoughts about him rather clear.
“Well then. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” The boots turned. “Get up and follow me.”
He did as he was told, keeping his head down. He didn’t hear either of the others following and his heart soared while his veins iced at the elation and terror that filled him when he realized he’d be alone with his master.
They went through an actual door — wood, hinges and all — into a concrete hallway that could have been in any industrial building. A glance up showed him pipes lining the ceiling, painted the same dull gray as the walls. Nondescript doorways lined the hall but they were all closed. Roland came to a stop, Dean heard a door open, then he was following into a darkened room. Dean passed by Roland, who held the door, the closed it with a soft click behind him.
A bedroom. A really nice one. Black sheets on a massive bed that was mounted high within a wrought iron frame. What looked like two gas lamps hung over it to either side, but he suspected they were electric because he couldn’t smell gas or flame. Other furniture typical of a bedroom was arranged about the room, all in dark wood or upholstery, but the bed was the focal point and it held Dean’s attention.
Heat that had nothing to do with physical flame lit his back, his master standing just behind him. “You came back.”
He straightened, leaning back ever so slightly to get that much closer to the man he craved and feared in equal proportions.
He melted at the feel of breath just above his right ear. “I came back,” was all he could think to say.
Nails dug into his shoulders, through the shiny faux leather of his jacket, making him cry out when he was yanked back against the hard wall of Roland’s chest. “You will not leave me again.” One taloned hand shot to his neck, encircling it so sharp tips pierced the surface of his flesh. “Not until I give you permission. Is that understood?”
Dean nodded, regardless that it caused the nails to bite into him further. His eyes were shut, his heart racing. In this moment, he knew Roland could take him in so many ways, for pleasure or pain, and he had no say in the matter whatsoever.
He was released and the air cooled when Roland stepped away. “Strip.”
Dean stalled, watching the tall man head for a table in the corner. Hands were at his black shirt, fingers at the buttons.
“Dean,” he warned without looking.
Swallowing, Dean toed out of his boots while gathering the hem of his shirt. He tried not to watch his master remove clothing, concentrating on his own. This part of his new life still confused him. He’d always been attracted to men, but not like this. Not this all-consuming need that permeated his very being. And this wasn’t like anything he’d experienced with other men, not judging from last time. Just the hint of the memory he refused to fully acknowledge had him shivering. He dropped his clothing on the floor, unwilling to move from the spot where he’d stopped until Roland told him so.
Roland wasn’t naked. He’d removed his shirt and was sitting at the table, watching Dean as he dropped his jeans to the rug. His eyes roamed Dean’s body, from toes to the curls on his head. The look was tangible, waking every nerve ending. “Get on the bed.”
Dean took a step toward the bed, but his eyes dropped to Roland’s boots. Shouldn’t he…?
“Get on the bed.”
Nodding, he obeyed, watching out of the corner of his eye as Roland removed his own boots. When Roland stood, barefoot, Dean knelt in the center of the mattress. Waiting. Alive. Erect. Terrified.
At the edge of the bed, Roland paused with his hands at his belt buckle, hooded eyes watching. “You’re afraid.”
Dean nodded, letting gold curls tumble forward to shield his eyes.
Slowly, Roland loosed his belt, flicking open the button below his navel. “You want this.”
Swallowing, Dean nodded, watching long, graceful hands loosen pants.
“I want this.” And he did. Didn’t mean he wasn’t scared. It’d hurt last time. He’d thought he was going to die. He very well could this time. Why am I here?
Pants dropped and Dean licked his lips at the sight of Roland’s thick, erect cock. The thatch of black fur at its base the same color as the fur that sprouted from his arms when he changed… Dean shook. How the hell was his cock so full when he was so damn scared?
Roland leaned in, crawling over the edge of the bed with smooth, feline grace. On all fours, he approached Dean then managed to sit so that they were mere inches from touching. Dean inhaled, filling his head with the scent of this man who was more than just a man. Hands smoothed up his arms, before strong hands cupped his jaw and forced him into a kiss. Open mouth, demanding, devouring. Dean moaned, melting, igniting. He made bold to push forward, grabbing Roland’s sides as he pressed as close to heated skin as he could.
Roland thrust him away, keeping hold of his head. “You gave yourself to me.”
“Yes.” He squirmed. Now that he’d tasted, terror subsided to incoherent need.
Roland tossed him toward the mound of pillows at the headboard. “On your knees.”
Dean scrambled to obey, facing the headboard. He shuddered, knowing what was next, unsure what pain awaited but unable to escape. Unwilling to escape.
Roland came behind him, hands on the mattress to either side of Dean’s knees. Warm lips pressed to his right buttock before parting to bite into his flesh, not hard enough to break skin but enough that he felt it. Dean clutched pillows and moaned as Roland traced kisses and nips up his back, keeping his chest low to brush Dean’s skin until the larger man boxed the smaller, chest to back, cock to ass.
“Mine,” Roland growled, teeth grazing the meat of Dean’s shoulder just off his neck.
“Yes.” Dean shuddered.
“Your body needs mine.” He shifted his hips, his cock rubbing between Dean’s cheeks.
“Your body –” he shifted slightly to put his weight on one arm, freeing the other to reach down between them to grasp his cock, “– will adjust to mine.”
Dean gasped when the blunt head of Roland’s cock pressed his opening. No lube. This was going to hurt. He held his breath, willing to take it.
But it didn’t hurt. He groaned, shaking, damn nearly coming at the feel of Roland forging into his body with only heated purpose. No burn, no tear, just aching, gorgeous pleasure.
Roland’s chuckle ruffled the hair at Dean’s nape. “Adjust,” he said again, his free hand slipping around Dean’s hip to his lower belly, guiding him back. He nipped Dean’s shoulder. “To me. You feel it?”
Dean nodded, whimpering into the darkness. He wasn’t, he couldn’t, this was too big, too much. He was on fire, suffocating, trembling.
“Give it to me, pup.”
Roland’s hand closed around Dean’s cock and Dean cried out when he came, instantly, rocking desperately into Roland’s grip.
“That’s it,” Roland crooned as Dean came apart beneath him. His strong arms held Dean hostage, held him together. He thrust slowly while Dean vibrated.
When Dean slumped forward, face in the pillows, sated and frustrated, shaking with need, Roland smoothed hands over his back and shoulders.
“You understand now?” Roland asked. “You understand this.” He thrust hard on the last word.
“Yes!” No. Well, maybe he did.
“Mine.” Roland gripped his shoulders, bracing as he picked up the pace of his thrusts.
A growl that wasn’t close to human. The fingers that bit into his flesh tipped with talons. The legs that brushed the backs of his thighs covered in fur. Dean shut his eyes against the fear that wanted to rise but didn’t have a chance, withering to dust as Roland fucked him, took him, claimed him.
Roland shoved forward, pressing Dean into the mattress. Fur-covered skin covered him and the teeth that broke skin in his shoulder were long and sharp. Dean screamed for the pain he expected to feel even though it wasn’t nearly what he expected. Painful, yes, but in a way that filled his cock and tightened his balls. Clutching the pillows, Dean rocked with Roland’s motion, taking everything that was given and giving all that was demanded.
When he came again under a triumphant growl in Roland’s throat, Deans own claws ripped into the mattress.
©2018 Jet Mykles, all rights reserved
One thought on “Fiction – Down Deep”
Can’t wait !!!