Kink Meme Fic #16
Dec. 4th, 2009 12:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alternatedoomWritten for the Marvel Kink Meme here.
Prompt was: Bullseye/Daken. Bullseye boinks a smashed-up, healing Daken, and films it to troll the hell out of Logan. Either non-con or Daken just being mildly peeved is fine.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Noncon, violence, exploding squishy parts like in Dark Wolverine.
Whistling as he walks, Lester hefts the lifeless, bleeding Avenger over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, taking him back to the room he's selected for this purpose.
Daken had died in the hallway where they'd fought. As he opens the door, he feels Daken's pulse flicker up and start again. Perfect timing. Lester is having a great day.
He unloads Daken in the center of the room. Daken tumbles down bonelessly, landing with legs spread and an arm bent awkwardly underneath him. He's dripping blood from his left temple where Lester's knife is lodged, and this time Lester shot the explosive-tipped arrow directly where he wanted the damage inflicted. Not merely in the juncture of the hip, oh no.
Much smaller quantity of explosives than last time, though, because he wanted something left there to fuck. He's going to do this for real this time. All the way.
Lester crouches to cut the tattered remainders of Daken's clothes off, revealing a bloodied, brusied body with a grotesque pink mess where his junk had been. Lester grins at the sight and turns Daken's face to the side, angling Daken's chin carefully in the direction he wants.
He gets up to check and make sure the videocameras are running and focused clearly on his subject.
"Smile for the camera," he advises the barely breathing body gleefully.
From his fights with Wolverine plus the few physical struggles he's had with Daken, Lester has a pretty good idea of the speed and capacity of the family healing factor. Speculation has it if he leaves the knife in a little bit longer, there might be permanent brain damage or even death.
Lester's tempted, and getting off with a rapidly cooling corpse is nothing new to him. But he'd told Prince Charming he was going to kill him slowly, in all kinds of ways. Sometimes (not often, but sometimes) Lester keeps his promises.
So he jerks the knife free from Daken's temple, like the sword from the stone. The knife is dull, but Lester's skill makes the sharpness of any weapon irrelevant. The blade comes out drenched in blood and with gray matter clinging to the edge.
Timing is key. He wants Daken to regain consciousness as he's getting fucked, but while he's still too damaged to do anything about it.
He slides between Daken's legs and delves into the supplies he set up. Lube, an extra knife, some towels, a tire iron, a gun and a block of concrete. With a light touch he slicks up the head of his cock. Not a lot, just a little. Lester wants friction, no sense making the action too wet. If he's doing this, and he so is, might as well make it good start to finish.
Normally right about now he'd be focusing on his tableau. With a real work of art, every detail counts. Every brushstroke, every scrape and stab wound. Lester cares about that. But Wolverine's pretentious little pansy son pisses him off so bad, all he can think about is fucking the little prick, hurting him with no style or aesthetic behind the violence. He hates Daken for that, too.
He pushes Daken's legs out of the way, but they're dead weight and cause Daken's hips to shift. So Lester grabs him by the ankles and rests Daken's calves up against his shoulders instead. This whole business would be easier if he put the pretty boy on his stomach, but he needs to be able to monitor Daken's face, to keep tabs on the situation. The healing makes this sort of thing six times as complicated.
He holds his cock straight with one hand and grips Daken's hip with the other. Then he presses the tip of his dick to Daken's tight little pucker. "Open up, princess."
As he forces his way inside, Daken barely reacts. The tiniest of noises escapes his throat, more pained exhale than moan. It's a bit disappointing, actually, so when he's all the way in, he slaps Daken's cheeks a little, hard, to wake him up.
"Hey. Sleeping Beauty."
When Daken startles awake, in a way that suggests he might be recovering a little more than Lester wants, he stops and reaches for the cement block off to the side.
"Stay down," he says, and brings the cement block down with force into Daken's chest. A strangled breath is forced from Daken's lungs. Lester debates smashing the fucker's face to a bloody pulp, but he wants the candy-ass to be recognizable for daddy from start to finish. So he takes the gun and smacks the little punk in the nose instead. Daken's head jerks at the impact, his nose nearly exploding with a satisfying spray of blood. It looks so good Lester does it again to his chin, but after that he makes himself stop. Cause this is about more than merely his own enjoyment; it's about putting on a show for daddy. The red droplets splash down onto his cheeks and neck, a little rivulet pooling in the hollow of his throat, and Lester admires the sight. Cause that is beautiful. That is art.
"That fancy aftershave is shit. You smell much better like this," Lester tells him. He wraps his hand in the shock of black hair, jerks Daken's chin up, and leans in close to inhale the coppery scent of blood off his neck. He slips his tongue out and tastes, delicately, so he can better remember this moment.
Lester looks down lovingly at his quarry. He could kill the little bastard now. He'd promised he would, and the feeling is nothing like with Deadpool, his other favorite person to fantasize about killing. Lester has not a sliver of doubt in him. He's going to relish ending this little fucker. But he's got time, no need to rush. He waits another few moments to see if Daken seems to be recovering at all. When he doesn't stir, Lester resumes fucking him. The need takes on urgency, and excitement crackles along his nerves. Lester feels alive the way he only does when he's fucking, fighting or killing.
Daken's lips are pressed together so tightly they turn white at the edges. But he seems immobilized and is struggling to breathe, so Lester lets it go, enjoying the flicker of seething hatred in Daken's eyes.
"Did I mention I'm taping this, gorgeous? For your dad."
* * *
Logan puts the shiny silver disc in the machine, wary of whatever it's about to show him. He presses play and feels like he's been socked in the stomach as the video begins. He watches as Bullseye dumps his son on the floor, adjusts the camera and cheerfully tells Daken to smile. Watches Lester grinding into Daken's broken, bloodied body like it's the best thing in the world. He can't get over the absolute mess of Daken's body, particularly below the waist. It's grisly. Sickening. He's going to kill Bullseye--Hawkeye, whatever. Plant claws deep in his chest and slice his goddamn head off.
Logan feels like he should fast-forward, like he shouldn't watch this, but he sits like a man frozen. Daken wakes up a few minutes into it, after Bullseye pulls the knife out of his brain.
The bit with the concrete block makes him wince, irrationally.
After Lester hits him with the gun, Daken lies still, seemingly incapable of movement. Logan only knows he's conscious because he blinks now and then, and although he keeps his face steely, the stifled quality reflects silent suffering. Then he turns away from the camera to look up at Bullseye, and he must pull a face when Bullseye announces he's taping them, because Bullseye smiles and says, "Yeah, that's right."
Bullseye fucks Daken for a good fifteen minutes while Logan watches, not sure what he's waiting to see. Stupid to be paranoid for Daken's safety when his kid's the goddamn enemy and tougher than nails to boot, but he looks helpless and he's being hurt and Logan can't help freaking out a little inside. Because Bullseye can't just let Daken walk away from this. Daken would kill him. Bullseye is going to finish and decapitate him or something.
Tense and with his apprehension growing, Logan watches as Bullseye speeds up, snapping his hips quicker now, and he's starting to breathe harder too. Bullseye throws his head back when he comes, thrusting hard several times, hips then slowing to a rocking motion as he comes down from the high.
"You could have just asked," Daken growls, sitting up suddenly. The startled expression on Bullseye's face is almost pricelessly comical as Daken slams a foot hard into Bullseye's head. Daken's handsome features are ugly and distorted with rage. The kick happens almost too quickly to see, but the impact sends Bullseye flying backwards.
Daken's face is twisted with pain, and he grunts a little as he brings his leg down.
Daken looks up and catches sight of the camera, and the fury and pain writ on his face dissolves. He stares straight into it, sending chills along Logan's back.
"This is for my father? Seriously?" Daken sounds bored.
"Jesus, Lester." Daken drops his chin and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing as though he's being bothered by a particularly pesky, truculent child.
Logan watches with an uncertain combination of relief and disbelief.
Daken calmly looks down at his injuries, characteristically unconcerned but taking brief stock of the partially-healed mess between his legs. He stands up slowly and carefully, hissing through his teeth in pain. Logan knows how that feels, the getting-up part after a particularly fierce beating. He feels that tired painful intensity almost as muscle memory, and his heart reacts with a wave of involuntary sympathy.
Bullseye remains offscreen. Logan guesses he's lost consciousness, or is rolling around clutching his head. Likely the former though. Daken had kicked him but good.
Daken sighs again and walks out of frame, stumbling a little. His gait looks wobbly, like a baby deer, and for a second Logan thinks he's going to fall. But he catches himself, finds his balance, and makes it off-camera.
A few moments later Daken limps back into the camera's field of vision, testily dragging Bullseye with him by the wrists. Daken pulls him heavily to the center of the room. Blood is puddled and smeared on the floor where Bullseye fucked him.
At first Logan thinks Bullseye is unconscious, because he isn't moving, but then he emits a low moan and his face turns slowly to the side.
"I'd return the favor, show you a good time and all, but it's gonna be a while before I'm up for your intimate charms and the delights of..."--Daken looks around--"wherever the hell we are." Logan watches as Daken runs a hand between his legs, measuring with touch and sight the extent of the damage and the progress of the healing. Though Daken looks harassed, his tone stays smooth and pleasant. "But absolutely, I'd love to make a porno with you, Lester. Minus the C4 though, next time. I can't make sweet love to you like this."
With a foot Daken nudges the pile of his clothing apart. After a moment's examination of the ragged scraps, he abandons the burned remains of his outfit.
Pausing, Daken glances back into the camera and flashes a sardonic little smile. "Hi, Dad." He raises a hand and waves, like a kid making a video to send home from summer camp. When he looks back down at Bullseye, his lip curls. "Send this to him, Lester. Really. I dare you."
Swiftly he hits Bullseye once more in the face, hard, then limps naked and bloody to the door.
The camera stays like that for another few minutes, Bullseye lying unmoving in the center of the frame. Then, without fanfare, the screen goes black.
Logan's jaw hurts, and he realizes it's because he's been fiercely clamping his teeth together. He ejects the disc and forces himself to unclench his jaw.
He holds the disc up to his nose, but he still gets no scent at all from the plastic, so he slides it back in the envelope.
The envelope smells like it's been touched by half a dozen different people, none of whom are familiar to him. Post office personnel. Bullseye might have worn latex gloves, he muses. But with an ending like that, he severely doubts Bullseye would have sent the video. Certainly he wouldn't have sent along the footage in its entirity, unedited. The part leading up to the kick in the head, maybe. But after that? No way.
Which left... Daken? His son had seemed honestly exasperated at the idea.
They couldn't be playing games with him, Daken had been truly and viciously beaten, and he'd clocked Bullseye good in return. No, the rape, the violence was for real.
Logan looks back down at the envelope in his hands. Studying the faintly rounded handwriting of his name and address, he decides it looks vaguely feminine. Lifting the envelope again, he inhales deeply several times, and maybe one of the female scents on the paper is one he knows. He frowns in concentration before the scent conjures up a memory.
He thinks of long, soft-looking blond hair... and a devious smile... and he'd had no idea the new Ms. Marvel was so twisted.
Every single last one of Osborn's Avengers is fucking crazy, he decides, his son included. I'd love to make a porno with you, Lester.
"Fuck," he says aloud to the empty room.
Prompt was: Bullseye/Daken. Bullseye boinks a smashed-up, healing Daken, and films it to troll the hell out of Logan. Either non-con or Daken just being mildly peeved is fine.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Noncon, violence, exploding squishy parts like in Dark Wolverine.
Whistling as he walks, Lester hefts the lifeless, bleeding Avenger over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, taking him back to the room he's selected for this purpose.
Daken had died in the hallway where they'd fought. As he opens the door, he feels Daken's pulse flicker up and start again. Perfect timing. Lester is having a great day.
He unloads Daken in the center of the room. Daken tumbles down bonelessly, landing with legs spread and an arm bent awkwardly underneath him. He's dripping blood from his left temple where Lester's knife is lodged, and this time Lester shot the explosive-tipped arrow directly where he wanted the damage inflicted. Not merely in the juncture of the hip, oh no.
Much smaller quantity of explosives than last time, though, because he wanted something left there to fuck. He's going to do this for real this time. All the way.
Lester crouches to cut the tattered remainders of Daken's clothes off, revealing a bloodied, brusied body with a grotesque pink mess where his junk had been. Lester grins at the sight and turns Daken's face to the side, angling Daken's chin carefully in the direction he wants.
He gets up to check and make sure the videocameras are running and focused clearly on his subject.
"Smile for the camera," he advises the barely breathing body gleefully.
From his fights with Wolverine plus the few physical struggles he's had with Daken, Lester has a pretty good idea of the speed and capacity of the family healing factor. Speculation has it if he leaves the knife in a little bit longer, there might be permanent brain damage or even death.
Lester's tempted, and getting off with a rapidly cooling corpse is nothing new to him. But he'd told Prince Charming he was going to kill him slowly, in all kinds of ways. Sometimes (not often, but sometimes) Lester keeps his promises.
So he jerks the knife free from Daken's temple, like the sword from the stone. The knife is dull, but Lester's skill makes the sharpness of any weapon irrelevant. The blade comes out drenched in blood and with gray matter clinging to the edge.
Timing is key. He wants Daken to regain consciousness as he's getting fucked, but while he's still too damaged to do anything about it.
He slides between Daken's legs and delves into the supplies he set up. Lube, an extra knife, some towels, a tire iron, a gun and a block of concrete. With a light touch he slicks up the head of his cock. Not a lot, just a little. Lester wants friction, no sense making the action too wet. If he's doing this, and he so is, might as well make it good start to finish.
Normally right about now he'd be focusing on his tableau. With a real work of art, every detail counts. Every brushstroke, every scrape and stab wound. Lester cares about that. But Wolverine's pretentious little pansy son pisses him off so bad, all he can think about is fucking the little prick, hurting him with no style or aesthetic behind the violence. He hates Daken for that, too.
He pushes Daken's legs out of the way, but they're dead weight and cause Daken's hips to shift. So Lester grabs him by the ankles and rests Daken's calves up against his shoulders instead. This whole business would be easier if he put the pretty boy on his stomach, but he needs to be able to monitor Daken's face, to keep tabs on the situation. The healing makes this sort of thing six times as complicated.
He holds his cock straight with one hand and grips Daken's hip with the other. Then he presses the tip of his dick to Daken's tight little pucker. "Open up, princess."
As he forces his way inside, Daken barely reacts. The tiniest of noises escapes his throat, more pained exhale than moan. It's a bit disappointing, actually, so when he's all the way in, he slaps Daken's cheeks a little, hard, to wake him up.
"Hey. Sleeping Beauty."
When Daken startles awake, in a way that suggests he might be recovering a little more than Lester wants, he stops and reaches for the cement block off to the side.
"Stay down," he says, and brings the cement block down with force into Daken's chest. A strangled breath is forced from Daken's lungs. Lester debates smashing the fucker's face to a bloody pulp, but he wants the candy-ass to be recognizable for daddy from start to finish. So he takes the gun and smacks the little punk in the nose instead. Daken's head jerks at the impact, his nose nearly exploding with a satisfying spray of blood. It looks so good Lester does it again to his chin, but after that he makes himself stop. Cause this is about more than merely his own enjoyment; it's about putting on a show for daddy. The red droplets splash down onto his cheeks and neck, a little rivulet pooling in the hollow of his throat, and Lester admires the sight. Cause that is beautiful. That is art.
"That fancy aftershave is shit. You smell much better like this," Lester tells him. He wraps his hand in the shock of black hair, jerks Daken's chin up, and leans in close to inhale the coppery scent of blood off his neck. He slips his tongue out and tastes, delicately, so he can better remember this moment.
Lester looks down lovingly at his quarry. He could kill the little bastard now. He'd promised he would, and the feeling is nothing like with Deadpool, his other favorite person to fantasize about killing. Lester has not a sliver of doubt in him. He's going to relish ending this little fucker. But he's got time, no need to rush. He waits another few moments to see if Daken seems to be recovering at all. When he doesn't stir, Lester resumes fucking him. The need takes on urgency, and excitement crackles along his nerves. Lester feels alive the way he only does when he's fucking, fighting or killing.
Daken's lips are pressed together so tightly they turn white at the edges. But he seems immobilized and is struggling to breathe, so Lester lets it go, enjoying the flicker of seething hatred in Daken's eyes.
"Did I mention I'm taping this, gorgeous? For your dad."
* * *
Logan puts the shiny silver disc in the machine, wary of whatever it's about to show him. He presses play and feels like he's been socked in the stomach as the video begins. He watches as Bullseye dumps his son on the floor, adjusts the camera and cheerfully tells Daken to smile. Watches Lester grinding into Daken's broken, bloodied body like it's the best thing in the world. He can't get over the absolute mess of Daken's body, particularly below the waist. It's grisly. Sickening. He's going to kill Bullseye--Hawkeye, whatever. Plant claws deep in his chest and slice his goddamn head off.
Logan feels like he should fast-forward, like he shouldn't watch this, but he sits like a man frozen. Daken wakes up a few minutes into it, after Bullseye pulls the knife out of his brain.
The bit with the concrete block makes him wince, irrationally.
After Lester hits him with the gun, Daken lies still, seemingly incapable of movement. Logan only knows he's conscious because he blinks now and then, and although he keeps his face steely, the stifled quality reflects silent suffering. Then he turns away from the camera to look up at Bullseye, and he must pull a face when Bullseye announces he's taping them, because Bullseye smiles and says, "Yeah, that's right."
Bullseye fucks Daken for a good fifteen minutes while Logan watches, not sure what he's waiting to see. Stupid to be paranoid for Daken's safety when his kid's the goddamn enemy and tougher than nails to boot, but he looks helpless and he's being hurt and Logan can't help freaking out a little inside. Because Bullseye can't just let Daken walk away from this. Daken would kill him. Bullseye is going to finish and decapitate him or something.
Tense and with his apprehension growing, Logan watches as Bullseye speeds up, snapping his hips quicker now, and he's starting to breathe harder too. Bullseye throws his head back when he comes, thrusting hard several times, hips then slowing to a rocking motion as he comes down from the high.
"You could have just asked," Daken growls, sitting up suddenly. The startled expression on Bullseye's face is almost pricelessly comical as Daken slams a foot hard into Bullseye's head. Daken's handsome features are ugly and distorted with rage. The kick happens almost too quickly to see, but the impact sends Bullseye flying backwards.
Daken's face is twisted with pain, and he grunts a little as he brings his leg down.
Daken looks up and catches sight of the camera, and the fury and pain writ on his face dissolves. He stares straight into it, sending chills along Logan's back.
"This is for my father? Seriously?" Daken sounds bored.
"Jesus, Lester." Daken drops his chin and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing as though he's being bothered by a particularly pesky, truculent child.
Logan watches with an uncertain combination of relief and disbelief.
Daken calmly looks down at his injuries, characteristically unconcerned but taking brief stock of the partially-healed mess between his legs. He stands up slowly and carefully, hissing through his teeth in pain. Logan knows how that feels, the getting-up part after a particularly fierce beating. He feels that tired painful intensity almost as muscle memory, and his heart reacts with a wave of involuntary sympathy.
Bullseye remains offscreen. Logan guesses he's lost consciousness, or is rolling around clutching his head. Likely the former though. Daken had kicked him but good.
Daken sighs again and walks out of frame, stumbling a little. His gait looks wobbly, like a baby deer, and for a second Logan thinks he's going to fall. But he catches himself, finds his balance, and makes it off-camera.
A few moments later Daken limps back into the camera's field of vision, testily dragging Bullseye with him by the wrists. Daken pulls him heavily to the center of the room. Blood is puddled and smeared on the floor where Bullseye fucked him.
At first Logan thinks Bullseye is unconscious, because he isn't moving, but then he emits a low moan and his face turns slowly to the side.
"I'd return the favor, show you a good time and all, but it's gonna be a while before I'm up for your intimate charms and the delights of..."--Daken looks around--"wherever the hell we are." Logan watches as Daken runs a hand between his legs, measuring with touch and sight the extent of the damage and the progress of the healing. Though Daken looks harassed, his tone stays smooth and pleasant. "But absolutely, I'd love to make a porno with you, Lester. Minus the C4 though, next time. I can't make sweet love to you like this."
With a foot Daken nudges the pile of his clothing apart. After a moment's examination of the ragged scraps, he abandons the burned remains of his outfit.
Pausing, Daken glances back into the camera and flashes a sardonic little smile. "Hi, Dad." He raises a hand and waves, like a kid making a video to send home from summer camp. When he looks back down at Bullseye, his lip curls. "Send this to him, Lester. Really. I dare you."
Swiftly he hits Bullseye once more in the face, hard, then limps naked and bloody to the door.
The camera stays like that for another few minutes, Bullseye lying unmoving in the center of the frame. Then, without fanfare, the screen goes black.
Logan's jaw hurts, and he realizes it's because he's been fiercely clamping his teeth together. He ejects the disc and forces himself to unclench his jaw.
He holds the disc up to his nose, but he still gets no scent at all from the plastic, so he slides it back in the envelope.
The envelope smells like it's been touched by half a dozen different people, none of whom are familiar to him. Post office personnel. Bullseye might have worn latex gloves, he muses. But with an ending like that, he severely doubts Bullseye would have sent the video. Certainly he wouldn't have sent along the footage in its entirity, unedited. The part leading up to the kick in the head, maybe. But after that? No way.
Which left... Daken? His son had seemed honestly exasperated at the idea.
They couldn't be playing games with him, Daken had been truly and viciously beaten, and he'd clocked Bullseye good in return. No, the rape, the violence was for real.
Logan looks back down at the envelope in his hands. Studying the faintly rounded handwriting of his name and address, he decides it looks vaguely feminine. Lifting the envelope again, he inhales deeply several times, and maybe one of the female scents on the paper is one he knows. He frowns in concentration before the scent conjures up a memory.
He thinks of long, soft-looking blond hair... and a devious smile... and he'd had no idea the new Ms. Marvel was so twisted.
Every single last one of Osborn's Avengers is fucking crazy, he decides, his son included. I'd love to make a porno with you, Lester.
"Fuck," he says aloud to the empty room.
