Hullo. So, here is the beginning of a fill (I was the one that posted about a twist ending :) ). :D I will say now, I'm exceptionally nervous as I haven't written anything smutty in literally years, so, I'm just going to stay anon for a while, shall I? ;) I'm also a bit of a new poster and this is my first time sharing a CP fic (I have some others in the works), so . . . Nervous! Gah!
But yeah, I hope you enjoy it, prompter, and everyone else! :)
WARNINGS: Dub-con, non-con kind of things happening. Goodness. O.O
* * * * *
Home from standby once more, it had actually been a rather okay day for a day of just sitting about. More than okay, really. Carolyn had made the coffee that morning, as Arthur was out getting pastries ("Have you seen them, Skip? Toblerone croissants! Doesn't that sound brilliant?!"), meaning the coffee was far better than the usual. Arthur had bought croissants for everyone (Martin deciding that they were quite tasty, honestly), and Douglas ended up not particularly liking his tuna on rye that he had brought with for lunch that day, he ending up giving his lunch to the more than thin pilot ("You may as well have it, sir. Lord knows you'll go into a complete fit if it goes to waste.")
To top it all off, he had almost won a word game. Yes, he decided to be happy about almost winning a word game, as it had been that good of a day. Though, Douglas of course had to give him snark about it ("Almost only counts in horseshoes, Martin." "Well, I didn't ask you, did I, Douglas?")
It also added to the loveliness of the day when he came home to a party. Now, he wouldn't usually be exactly thrilled that the students were throwing a party, but, in this instance, they insisted that he make a plate of food before he went off to bed. Well, he couldn't very well be rude and refuse. So, he made a plate (the students themselves throwing a few things on as they both had bought far too much and were a little tipsy to boot), ate and even had a small drink with the more than usual chipper students, which wasn't all that bad.
Yep, it had been a more than quite alright day.
All cozied up in his bed now, feeling full and warm, he effortlessly drifted off into a nice light sleep with the help of the party's bass thrumming through the house, it feeling perfect two stories up, lulling him to a sleepy state very nicely.
Though, that's when something started to feel. . . Off.
Entering sleep, one now and again has trouble distinguishing if you're actually awake or not if you're dreaming of something you normally do when you're in the waking world. Say, for example, dreaming you're piloting, of course, Martin wouldn't know right off the bat if he was sleeping or not. Or, possibly dreaming about laying in bed, just facing his attic wall. Martin's done that quite a bit before, as odd as that may sound to some people.
That's what he may or may not be dreaming of at that moment. He's not quite sure if he's awake in his bed or if he's still in that lovely state of sleep. So, of course he's not exactly sure if he's dreaming of hearing his attic door opening or of the hinges groaning as the door swings back to close with a click. He's not certain if he's dreaming of hearing heavyset footsteps on the wooden floor making their way to his bed, not sure if he's dreaming of one of those footfalls coming in contact with that one squeaky floorboard he seems to always hit when he's climbing into bed himself. . . He's definitely not sure if he's dreaming of someone slinking into his bed behind him (this not being a problem as his covers seemed to have been kicked off in this maybe dream), this person pressing against his back lightly, or. . . Or having their hands start to roam about on his bare top, so very unsure if one of those hands is palming him delicately through his pants.
"Mmm..." he murmurs nicely, deciding this had to be a dream. No one in their right mind would just climb into bed with Martin Crieff.
His little sound of pleasure seems to make this dream person (Man? Their hands felt quite large and a tad calloused) respond, his arm traveling under Martin's side, holding him with a light touch, those fingertips wisping over his skin, goose pimples trailing behind in their wake. This shift now placing the mystery man flush against him, the pilot being able to feel hot breath huffing against his neck. Something else as well. . . A scent. Something floral like wafting around him from this dream stranger, smelling vaguely familiar. How very odd for a dream.
The man's other hand kept working on his now nearly erect member, hand enveloping the clothed cock, a lazy sort of stroke taking place. His sharp hips lean toward the touch, groaning lowly, appreciatively. This was some wonderful dream.
After a few moments of rubbing through the cloth; the mystery man's thumb dips underneath the waste band, carefully lifting the band over his lightly leaking cock, exposing it to the slightly chilled air of the attic.
Those thicker than average fingers wrap around Martin's hardness, his breath hitching at the firm grip, starting to pant as a steady stroke began, hips bucking mildly into the encircled hand, meeting most every stroke. This dream may be worth the mess he'll surely have to clean come morning.
Meanwhile, that other hand still gently explored, it's thumb rubbing Martin's nipple softly, flicking lightly. The ginger haired man was honestly wondering how a dream could feel so real. That's when the 'something off' feeling grew incredibly.
"Oh God." The pilot moans, his back arching as the man's hand pinched his nipple. And not just a little pinch that you would do to test the waters. It was a very hard pinch. . . One that hurt in that lovely kind of way. . . Why hadn't he woken up to a pinch like that?. . .
"Oh God." he gasps out in horrifying revelation, eyes snapping open in fright.
He wasn't dreaming.
He was more than awake.
With a strange man wanking him off!
"Oh God!" He didn't know what else to say as he tensed up, the man's hand still stroking, now faster, firmer, his hand gripping tighter as he went, a little twist added now again on the upstroke to slide a thumb against his terribly sensitive head, spreading precome downward to act as a makeshift lubricant.
Martin felt paralyzed, helpless. What was he to do?! He couldn't call for help as the students wouldn't be able to hear him as their party was still going strong, it sounded like. He couldn't very well call the police as his phone was nowhere near him, and he highly doubted his assaulter would let him make the call. He also didn't think he'd be able to take the man on in fear of getting hurt.
"S-Stop i-it." he stuttered out feebly. He decided to try and plead for the man to stop. What else was he to do?
"S-Stop it." He reiterates a tad more loudly, panting, this not stopping the man. If anything, his stroking became faster.
"Stop it!" he moans out, arching at the sensation, feeling so close to coming. But he couldn't, he shouldn't, he didn't want to! Not like this, not with someone he didn't know!
"Stop!" He repeats, cursing under his breath as his hips disobeyed his mind, they rocking with the hand, steadily bucking with each hard stroke.
"Stop it, stop this now!" He gasps out, the other hand pinching his nipple again, rolling it between index finger and thumb, not showing any sign that he was going to quit what he was doing.
He felt hot. His heart fluttering rapidly, feeling as if it'd pound right out of his chest at this hot, humiliating pulse ringing through his being as his orgasm was building right along with that shameful feeling of not being able to control his damn body's response in this horrid scenario.
That flowery smell that wafted so nicely before was now positively ghastly. It trapping his senses, enclosing all around him, tangling around his body and shoving it's way into his nose, mouth, suffocating him. Oh God, why wouldn't his body listen?!
"Oh God, stop, stop, s-stop. . ." Martin starts to chant in moans and groans, body betraying his brain as he thrusts into the hand, hands clenching so hard, he feeling so close as the hand picked up just enough speed. Oh good God in heaven, he was going to come, whether it was wrong or right, whether he wanted to or not, it was going to happen.
"Stop! Stop it, now! Stop. . . please. . ." he cries out in one final attempt before he feels that all too familiar feeling of his stomach tightening, hips bucking uncontrollably, finally, that feeling of utter explosive relief washing over him, a yawp of nonsense erupting from his mouth as he arched in a dramatic bow against his assailant, feeling come splatter onto his stomach, some no doubt, dribbling down over his assaulter's hand as he felt it run downward, the mystery man stroking Martin through his orgasm.
Other than his chest heaving from his erratic gasping, he lay stalk still as the man who touched him stood, Martin hearing that floorboard squeak, soon feeling his hand again, wiping the come away like some tender lover would as he stared wide eyed at his attic wall. With what he was wiping him down with, he had no clue, and honestly, he didn't much care to find out. He just wanted the man to leave. He wanted this to be over and done with and forget it ever happened.
The man seemingly done, raises the waste band of Martin's pants again, lifting them up, placing them where they started in the first place.
With a little pat to his hip, Martin hears those footsteps retreating to the door, hears the creak of the hinges, and finally, hears the door close with a click. He strains his ears, picking out the sound of those footsteps becoming fainter with each step.
When he couldn't hear those steps anymore; he lets out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Thoughts were rushing into his mind now. So many buzzing about, thrashing around until it was no more than one jumbled mess of a knot, only one thought being able to squirm it's way out of the entangled mass that was his mind.
"Lavender," he barely whispers out as he realizes his hand has brought up the duvet, curling tightly into ball, cocooning himself into the covering as that thought floats around his head, "He smelled like lavender. . ."
* * * * *
. . . Hooray! :D But yeah... Oh my goodness. *still nervous* I hope you liked the first part. Any comments would be lovely (I try and get all the British type things in there and whatnot) and welcomed, as I have been having some writer's block recently, and this fic has started to cure it, so, yes. . . *awkward pause* . . .
FILL: Part 1/?
Hullo. So, here is the beginning of a fill (I was the one that posted about a twist ending :) ). :D
I will say now, I'm exceptionally nervous as I haven't written anything smutty in literally years, so, I'm just going to stay anon for a while, shall I? ;) I'm also a bit of a new poster and this is my first time sharing a CP fic (I have some others in the works), so . . . Nervous! Gah!
But yeah, I hope you enjoy it, prompter, and everyone else! :)
WARNINGS: Dub-con, non-con kind of things happening. Goodness. O.O
* * * * *
Home from standby once more, it had actually been a rather okay day for a day of just sitting about. More than okay, really. Carolyn had made the coffee that morning, as Arthur was out getting pastries ("Have you seen them, Skip? Toblerone croissants! Doesn't that sound brilliant?!"), meaning the coffee was far better than the usual. Arthur had bought croissants for everyone (Martin deciding that they were quite tasty, honestly), and Douglas ended up not particularly liking his tuna on rye that he had brought with for lunch that day, he ending up giving his lunch to the more than thin pilot ("You may as well have it, sir. Lord knows you'll go into a complete fit if it goes to waste.")
To top it all off, he had almost won a word game. Yes, he decided to be happy about almost winning a word game, as it had been that good of a day. Though, Douglas of course had to give him snark about it ("Almost only counts in horseshoes, Martin." "Well, I didn't ask you, did I, Douglas?")
It also added to the loveliness of the day when he came home to a party. Now, he wouldn't usually be exactly thrilled that the students were throwing a party, but, in this instance, they insisted that he make a plate of food before he went off to bed. Well, he couldn't very well be rude and refuse. So, he made a plate (the students themselves throwing a few things on as they both had bought far too much and were a little tipsy to boot), ate and even had a small drink with the more than usual chipper students, which wasn't all that bad.
Yep, it had been a more than quite alright day.
All cozied up in his bed now, feeling full and warm, he effortlessly drifted off into a nice light sleep with the help of the party's bass thrumming through the house, it feeling perfect two stories up, lulling him to a sleepy state very nicely.
Though, that's when something started to feel. . . Off.
Entering sleep, one now and again has trouble distinguishing if you're actually awake or not if you're dreaming of something you normally do when you're in the waking world. Say, for example, dreaming you're piloting, of course, Martin wouldn't know right off the bat if he was sleeping or not. Or, possibly dreaming about laying in bed, just facing his attic wall. Martin's done that quite a bit before, as odd as that may sound to some people.
That's what he may or may not be dreaming of at that moment. He's not quite sure if he's awake in his bed or if he's still in that lovely state of sleep. So, of course he's not exactly sure if he's dreaming of hearing his attic door opening or of the hinges groaning as the door swings back to close with a click. He's not certain if he's dreaming of hearing heavyset footsteps on the wooden floor making their way to his bed, not sure if he's dreaming of one of those footfalls coming in contact with that one squeaky floorboard he seems to always hit when he's climbing into bed himself. . . He's definitely not sure if he's dreaming of someone slinking into his bed behind him (this not being a problem as his covers seemed to have been kicked off in this maybe dream), this person pressing against his back lightly, or. . . Or having their hands start to roam about on his bare top, so very unsure if one of those hands is palming him delicately through his pants.
"Mmm..." he murmurs nicely, deciding this had to be a dream. No one in their right mind would just climb into bed with Martin Crieff.
His little sound of pleasure seems to make this dream person (Man? Their hands felt quite large and a tad calloused) respond, his arm traveling under Martin's side, holding him with a light touch, those fingertips wisping over his skin, goose pimples trailing behind in their wake. This shift now placing the mystery man flush against him, the pilot being able to feel hot breath huffing against his neck. Something else as well. . . A scent. Something floral like wafting around him from this dream stranger, smelling vaguely familiar. How very odd for a dream.
The man's other hand kept working on his now nearly erect member, hand enveloping the clothed cock, a lazy sort of stroke taking place. His sharp hips lean toward the touch, groaning lowly, appreciatively. This was some wonderful dream.
After a few moments of rubbing through the cloth; the mystery man's thumb dips underneath the waste band, carefully lifting the band over his lightly leaking cock, exposing it to the slightly chilled air of the attic.
Those thicker than average fingers wrap around Martin's hardness, his breath hitching at the firm grip, starting to pant as a steady stroke began, hips bucking mildly into the encircled hand, meeting most every stroke. This dream may be worth the mess he'll surely have to clean come morning.
Meanwhile, that other hand still gently explored, it's thumb rubbing Martin's nipple softly, flicking lightly. The ginger haired man was honestly wondering how a dream could feel so real. That's when the 'something off' feeling grew incredibly.
"Oh God." The pilot moans, his back arching as the man's hand pinched his nipple. And not just a little pinch that you would do to test the waters. It was a very hard pinch. . . One that hurt in that lovely kind of way. . . Why hadn't he woken up to a pinch like that?. . .
"Oh God." he gasps out in horrifying revelation, eyes snapping open in fright.
He wasn't dreaming.
He was more than awake.
With a strange man wanking him off!
"Oh God!" He didn't know what else to say as he tensed up, the man's hand still stroking, now faster, firmer, his hand gripping tighter as he went, a little twist added now again on the upstroke to slide a thumb against his terribly sensitive head, spreading precome downward to act as a makeshift lubricant.
Martin felt paralyzed, helpless. What was he to do?! He couldn't call for help as the students wouldn't be able to hear him as their party was still going strong, it sounded like. He couldn't very well call the police as his phone was nowhere near him, and he highly doubted his assaulter would let him make the call. He also didn't think he'd be able to take the man on in fear of getting hurt.
"S-Stop i-it." he stuttered out feebly. He decided to try and plead for the man to stop. What else was he to do?
"S-Stop it." He reiterates a tad more loudly, panting, this not stopping the man. If anything, his stroking became faster.
"Stop it!" he moans out, arching at the sensation, feeling so close to coming. But he couldn't, he shouldn't, he didn't want to! Not like this, not with someone he didn't know!
"Stop!" He repeats, cursing under his breath as his hips disobeyed his mind, they rocking with the hand, steadily bucking with each hard stroke.
"Stop it, stop this now!" He gasps out, the other hand pinching his nipple again, rolling it between index finger and thumb, not showing any sign that he was going to quit what he was doing.
He felt hot. His heart fluttering rapidly, feeling as if it'd pound right out of his chest at this hot, humiliating pulse ringing through his being as his orgasm was building right along with that shameful feeling of not being able to control his damn body's response in this horrid scenario.
That flowery smell that wafted so nicely before was now positively ghastly. It trapping his senses, enclosing all around him, tangling around his body and shoving it's way into his nose, mouth, suffocating him. Oh God, why wouldn't his body listen?!
"Oh God, stop, stop, s-stop. . ." Martin starts to chant in moans and groans, body betraying his brain as he thrusts into the hand, hands clenching so hard, he feeling so close as the hand picked up just enough speed. Oh good God in heaven, he was going to come, whether it was wrong or right, whether he wanted to or not, it was going to happen.
"Stop! Stop it, now! Stop. . . please. . ." he cries out in one final attempt before he feels that all too familiar feeling of his stomach tightening, hips bucking uncontrollably, finally, that feeling of utter explosive relief washing over him, a yawp of nonsense erupting from his mouth as he arched in a dramatic bow against his assailant, feeling come splatter onto his stomach, some no doubt, dribbling down over his assaulter's hand as he felt it run downward, the mystery man stroking Martin through his orgasm.
Other than his chest heaving from his erratic gasping, he lay stalk still as the man who touched him stood, Martin hearing that floorboard squeak, soon feeling his hand again, wiping the come away like some tender lover would as he stared wide eyed at his attic wall. With what he was wiping him down with, he had no clue, and honestly, he didn't much care to find out. He just wanted the man to leave. He wanted this to be over and done with and forget it ever happened.
The man seemingly done, raises the waste band of Martin's pants again, lifting them up, placing them where they started in the first place.
With a little pat to his hip, Martin hears those footsteps retreating to the door, hears the creak of the hinges, and finally, hears the door close with a click. He strains his ears, picking out the sound of those footsteps becoming fainter with each step.
When he couldn't hear those steps anymore; he lets out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Thoughts were rushing into his mind now. So many buzzing about, thrashing around until it was no more than one jumbled mess of a knot, only one thought being able to squirm it's way out of the entangled mass that was his mind.
"Lavender," he barely whispers out as he realizes his hand has brought up the duvet, curling tightly into ball, cocooning himself into the covering as that thought floats around his head, "He smelled like lavender. . ."
* * * * *
. . . Hooray! :D But yeah... Oh my goodness. *still nervous* I hope you liked the first part. Any comments would be lovely (I try and get all the British type things in there and whatnot) and welcomed, as I have been having some writer's block recently, and this fic has started to cure it, so, yes. . . *awkward pause* . . .
Bye! <3